Death and a Post It
by FrenchFries75
Summary: George keeps thinking about the day she died; Mason is there to lend a hand and more. George/Mason. The smut is up, and it's finally done.
1. Stolen Souls and Borrowed Clothes

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Dead Like Me_ or any of the associated characters. This is my first attempt at any kind of fic, so please feel free to R/R. This is hopefully the first chapter of several. It's mainly in Georgia's POV. So far it contains language, a little violence and eventually it will contain sexual scenes—a Mason/George pairing.

**Chapter 1: Stolen Souls and Borrowed Clothes **

Shit!

"How in the hell are we supposed to know who's who in this clusterfuck?" I asked. People were swarming around everywhere, like a bunch of brainless bees in a hive. No, scratch that—they _were_ brainless bees in a hive.

"Well, I certainly don't know, Georgia," Daisy said. "Does my shirt have 'Information' written across the front of it?"

"Gee, I don't know, Miss 'I Don't Understand Rhetorical Questions.' Let's have a look and see, why don't we?" Reflexively I glanced at her shirt. Sure enough, it didn't say information, but I suddenly noticed it sure as hell screamed "money." Who the hell had given her _that_?

I grabbed the back of her collar and took a peek at the label. "Armani? Jesus, Daisy, since when can you afford Armani?" I asked, incredulously.

"None of your business, Georgia! God," she snapped. "Sometimes people like to give me nice things, OK? Is there anything wrong with that?"

"If I said yes, would it make a difference?" I asked.

_If the rest of these people were worker bees, she was royalty: Daisy. Daisy Adair. Queen bee._

Changing the subject, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Now," she began, "we have less than five minutes to find these people, so I suggest you think about yourself and your own business for a minute."

"Riiight … got any tips for that?" I mumbled under my breath, but either she didn't hear me or she just didn't care since she didn't acknowledge me. She started sashaying at somewhat a brisker pace.

"Come on," she said, turning around and looking back at me. "I think I see the guy."

I looked at my Post-It and read aloud: "D. Edwards. Callahan Building. ETD 2:31 p.m."

"How do you know that's him? D. Edwards?" I asked, jogging a little to catch up.

"I don't," she said airily. "I know it's _him_." She pointed to a man on the sidewalk and flashed me her Post-It. "R. Cochran. Callahan Building. ETD 2:31 p.m.," I looked at the guy. Yup, that was him. "The Amazing Ricky, Psychic Readings $20," I read aloud from the sandwich board propped up behind him. He was sitting near the entrance to the building, behind a cheap-looking fold-out table. Business didn't seem to be going so well for The Amazing Ricky today.

I wondered if he had any foresight that he was getting ready to bite the big one in less than three minutes? Somehow, I doubted it.

"Y'know, ten bucks says he doesn't even have a permit for that," I said testily. Just because Daisy had found her stupid reap didn't mean I was any closer to finding mine. The place was really crowded and I still hadn't made any progress.

Daisy had already left to go talk to the guy when I happened to glance up. "Oh shit," I said.

Some dumbass in a flashy silver bodysuit was rappelling down the side of the building, and to add insult to injury, he was doing it without a safety harness. Directly above where Ricky and Daisy were standing.

Yup, I'd just found my reap.

"I'm sure _he_ doesn't have a permit for _that_, either," I said. I had read articles in the paper about these brain trusts—they called themselves "urban daredevils," by the way—who get their kicks by scaling city buildings, statuary, anything with height. It was incredibly illegal, but more importantly, it was incredibly lame as far as sports go. And now I had to reap one of these idiots?

I glanced at my watch. Only two minutes to go. Crap! How in the hell was I supposed to get to this one?

At that moment, Silver Suit's cord began to give a little, and he started sliding down the glass front of the building really fast. I still couldn't see him completely clearly, but from what I could see, he looked startled. A little crowd of worker drones had also started to gather around the sidewalk around the building, watching Silver make his slide.

Shit, shit, shit! What was I gonna do?

I started looking around, hoping to find something—anything—that might help. Someone had left a ladder nearby, but I could tell it was way too short to do the trick. Some scaffolding had been set up on the other side, but there was no way I could reap him from that angle. Crap!

Luckily, one of those window washer's platform things was sitting on the sidewalk a few feet away. I'd never been on one and I don't really like heights, but I hopped on and immediately began hoisting myself up toward Silver Suit.

_Shit. This is harder than it looks._

The girl on the shaky platform going up the glass toward the man in the metallic bodysuit sliding down it had started to attract even more attention on the ground. "Don't do it, girlie!" some guy yelled. Another shouted, "Hang on, guy, she's almost there!"

I finally got close enough to shout at the dude. "D. Edwards?" I yelled. It was 2:30 p.m. I noticed several of those hateful, putrid gravelings were already jumping up and down on the sidewalk, clawing at the building, clamoring to get up and sliding back down.

Cute.

"Yes," Silver Suit said, his voice shaky. "David. Er, Dave. Dave Edwards."

"Wait," he began, and I could tell he was freaking out a little, "how the hell do you know my name?"

There wasn't any time to answer. Instead, I reached up and stroked his arm. As I took his soul, he undid his rip cord and lunged toward me in one fluid motion. He obviously thought I was trying to help him jump onto the platform.

Needless to say, I wasn't ready to grab him, and he didn't jump quite far enough. Before you could say "splat," he and Ricky became a big old jumbled pile of broken appendages and a spreading red stain on the ground.

Turns out it was kind of amazing.

It was also exactly 2:31 p.m.

_Jesus, that was too close._ I didn't want to think about the possibility that I might not have gotten to Silver Suit on time. I finally got the platform back down on the ground and walked over to where Ricky and Dave were standing, mouths agape.

"You know, something told me I shouldn't have come out here today," Ricky bitched. I saw Daisy smirking a little. I guess he _had_ had a premonition after all.

"Everything will be all right, Ricky," Daisy said in the childlike yet professional tone she affected when she wanted to sound calm and reassuring.

"My name is Daisy. Daisy Adair," she continued. "I took your soul and now your ride will be here any minute so you can move on."

"'Move on'?" Dave interrupted. "So he's … I'm … we're d-dead?"

"Oh," I said. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that. I'm George, by the way." I reached out to shake his hand. "I took _your_ soul."

"You did what? Are you two murderers or something?" Dave asked.

"Oh, God, no!" I said. How could I put this delicately? "We're … we're, um, grim reapers. We, uh, take people's souls out of their bodies before they die so they don't feel it and so their spirits can move on."

_Good job being delicate, Georgia_

"Grim reapers?" Ricky said. "You've gotta be shitting me!"

"Nope, not 'shitting' you," I said, and I made those obnoxious little air quotes to indicate my disdain. Then suddenly, lights were everywhere.

"Oh, look there's your ride, right on time." Thankfully, when the familiar white light appeared, people were too busy gathering around the bloody spectacle that had been Dave and Ricky—or at least what was left of them—to pay any attention as Daisy and I herded the two men into the light. Dave was still asking questions when Daisy cut him off.

"Bye bye, now," Daisy chirped and waved goodbye. "Good luck with the afterlife!"

She obviously wanted to wrap things up quickly. She'd already turned to go before the portal even closed. "Ugh!" she groaned. "I hate it when they're messy like that. Why don't I ever get a nice old lady in bed in her condo?"

Suddenly I realized I was shaking a little.

"Um, yeah," I said absentmindedly, looking back in the direction of Ricky and Dave's lifeless bodies, lying jumbled on the pavement. I couldn't help but think about my own flaming death-by-toilet-seat. The memory of looking at my own dead body laying sprawled against the concrete came rushing back and I shivered again. What if I hadn't gotten to Dave on time?

What if Rube hadn't gotten to me in time?

"Y'know, Daisy," I said, "What do you say we grab a drink? Isn't there a bar around here somewhere? I'd kill for something alcoholic."

Just then, Mason popped up. What? Where the hell had _he_ come from? "Hello, girls! Did someone just mention me?" he asked.

"A drink? God, Georgia, it's not even three o'clock," Daisy said.

"C'mon, Daisy, it's hardly Prohibition anymore, now is it?" asked Mason. "Anyway, you're Catholic, and it's _Saturday_." He pulled a flask from the pocket of his jacket, which had "Earl" sewn on it.

"If our Georgie girl can't have a drink when she wants one, then what's the point of it all?" he asked, unscrewing the top of the flask and handing it to me.

"Thanks," I said, gulping down a long swig. It was whiskey, warm and gross. Normally, I would've asked where the hell Mason had come from so fast, but right now I didn't really care. I took another long swig.

"Jesus, Georgie, rough day?" he asked, laughing.

"No," I lied. Normally I'd come back at him with a witty retort. The only thing that came out of my mouth, though, was "whatever." I slugged down another long drink before handing him back his flask.

"Ugh! That tastes like piss, by the way," I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

I never said it had been a rough day—that I'd almost missed a reap, and I'd only gotten there in the nick of time by some force of luck, and what if no one had gotten to me in time?

"Beggars can't be choosers, Georgie," Mason snarked. "Besides, it does what it's meant to do." He took a long drink himself before stuffing the flask back into Earl's coat pocket.

"So, whatd'ya say? You two girls up for some death and coffee?"

"Sure, Earl," I said, as Mason offered us each an arm, which we both took, and I laughed a bit in spite of myself.

"You know I'm not a Catholic anymore," Daisy said offhandedly.

"Shit, when did that happen?" Mason asked.

"I don't know, probably when you were passed out in a gutter somewhere," Daisy answered.

Mason gave her a derisive look but didn't push her arm away. So, walking arm-in-arm, we three reaper bees left the drones, still swarming around the hive. The beggar bee, the chooser bee and the queen set out, arm-in-arm, on the longish trek back to Der Waffle Haus.

It was time for another round of Death and a Post-It., and as I knew all too well, a Post-It waits for no one.


	2. For Every Action

Disclaimer: I do not own _Dead Like Me_ or any of the associated characters. This chapter is still in George's POV. Please feel free to R/R!

**Chapter 2: For Every Action, an Equal and Opposite Reaction**

Rube was in his usual jovial mood when we made it to Reaper Hut. He was writing in his battered leather binder, but he wasn't writing out Post-Its, thank God.

"Hey, kiddo. Daisy," he said. "Mason."

"Why do you gotta say it like that, Rube? Maaaason …" Mason said, surly. "Hello to you, too, Ruuuube."

Rube ignored him. "How went the reaps?" He didn't look up.

"Messy, bloody, limby, disgusting, you know, a riveting old time!" said Daisy. She looked at him. "You know, Rube, if you're going to subject us to that much blood on a daily basis, you might want to think about some kind of dry cleaning incentive."

"Good idea, Princess," said Roxy, who was already seated by Rube and blowing the steam of the top of her cup of coffee, black. "And while you're at it, Rube, how about reinstating that dental plan?"

"There was a dental plan?" asked Mason, clearly not catching on.

Daisy shot Roxy a dirty look. "I'm just saying, look at it like … hazard pay," she finished, looking satisfied with herself. She dusted an imaginary fleck of lint of her new Armani—right … Armani?—shirt. She still hadn't answered that one. I looked at her out of the side of my eye. I still wondered from whom she'd shit-talked that one.

"Fuck the hazard pay! What's this about dental?" Mason repeated, still not catching on.

"You looking for a new way to get your hands on a drill, Mason?" Rube said, still not looking up as he wrote. "They've got 'em down at the hardware store on the corner for cheap. Just make sure you keep your brains away from Daisy's outfit or you'll have to pay for cleaning."

"Ah, screw you, Rube!" Mason said pissily. "Why do you _always_ have to bring that up?"

"Why does he always have to bring _that_ up? I don't recall anyone ever calling you Drill Boy, and as the girl who constantly gets called Toilet Seat, even from complete strangers, I think I might remember," I said.

Thankfully, Kiffany stopped my righteous rant, which was getting kind of loud. "Can I get you something, sweetie?"

"Just some coffee, please, Kiffany."

"And you, sweetie, you want some coffee, too?" she asked Daisy.

"No thank you." Daisy gave her that sweet, "Daisy, Daisy Adair" smile.

Kiffany looked at Mason, but he'd already pulled an airplane bottle of rum out of his jacket pocket. She didn't say anything, but she gave him a look before walking away.

What was he, a walking liquor store?

"That time of day, already, Mason?" asked Roxy.

"Jesus, people, can't we give poor Mason just a lil' bit of a break?" Mason asked testily. He put the rum back in his pocket, but I could tell it was coming back out as soon as no one was looking. "Y'know, how are you, Mason? How was your reap, Mason? Anything new goin' on, Mason?"

"Anything new going on, Mason?" Rube asked. He was still writing. He was always writing. What the fuck was he always writing? I tried to sneak a peek, but with the way he'd angled his body there was no way I could look.

I suspected that was a conscious move.

"Well, thank you for asking, Rube," Mason said, brightening. Then, "Erm … umm … I … no."

"Thank you for that clearing that up."

When Kiffany returned with the coffee, Mason pulled out his airplane bottle. He gave me a conspiratorial look, and I felt like I was back in third grade, passing notes. But I still had a buzz from the whiskey, so I held out my coffee cup as quickly and discreetly as possible, and he poured a generous bit of rum in while no one was paying attention. Which seemed to be often.

_Georgia Lass, age 18, died in a senseless accident involving a piece of the orbiting space station Mir today …_

I shuddered a little and gulped at the coffee greedily. Damn, he'd put a lot of rum in there! It was pretty nasty. I made a face.

"Want some sugar, sugar?" Mason asked, and winked.

"Need a little pick-me-up, Peanut?" asked Rube, looking up for the first time. I suspect all my slurping and gulping had broken his concentration.

"More like 'need a little _sober-me-up_,'" said Daisy. She looked at Rube and Roxy and lowered her voice. "Mason and George had a little drinking contest this afternoon on the way here," she said.

"God, Daisy, you're such a tattle-tale!" I said. "And anyway, you're the one who's wearing weird, ill-gotten, weird—_did I just say weird?_—ill-gotten gains! She's wearing Armani!" I snitched.

Shit! This _was _third grade.

"Got something on your mind, Georgia?" Rube asked, and he gave me that look that I normally thought looked fatherly and sort of nosy—didn't the two go hand-in-hand, really?—but now, through my gauzy haze, just looked kinda squinty.

He looked so squinty, in fact, it made me giggle. "Nope," I answered honestly, shaking my head back and forth as the rum burned a hole down my windpipe. "Not a thing."

"Hmm." I could tell he didn't quite believe me, but he let it go.

"Mason, you know you can go to jail for contributing to the delinquency of a minor," Roxy said, looking very official in her police blues and sounding only semi-snarky.

"I am not a juvenile delinquent!" I blurted out, and Mason yelled, "Jesus, Roxy, it's not like she's really a minor! She's been dea—"

Rube gave him a look that said, _Finish that sentence and you'll be dead. Again._

"She's been dead over two years," Mason finished in a whisper, looking around. "And unless you've all forgotten, it's fucking _Saturday_! So let it rest, will you? Can you do that, I mean? Let it fucking rest?"

"Yes, Mason, it is fucking Saturday and I can let it fucking rest," Rube said matter-of-factly, and started to get up. "But just remember: 18 plus two does not make 21."

He looked at me pointedly.

"What?" I said. "I've had alcohol before." I lowered my voice to what I was pretty sure was close to a whisper and said, "Before I was Toilet Seat Girl'I had a life, you know."

I was totally lying and he knew it. I knew he knew it. I'd tried some of Betsy Fletcher's father's Scotch once at her sixth-grade slumber party, which my mother had gotten me invited to and had also made me go to, kicking and screaming, but it just tasted like hot burning Hell. I drank it and made this huge retching noise, and then all the other girls started laughing.

I spent the rest of the night reading her dad's stupid hunting magazines and picturing how I might pick those girls off, one by one.

"Anyway, Peanut, just be careful," Rube said, and gave me that squinty look again, which in turn made me giggle again. He shook his head, and turned to walk out. "OK, then, people. See you in the a.m. Don't be late."

"'Bye, Ruuuuuube," said Mason, brazenly taking a swig of another airplane bottle, this one vodka.

"Well, I'm not going to sit here and watch this," Roxy said, sat down her empty cup and got up, too.

"Rox, where are you going?" I asked, and I heard myself whining but I couldn't stop. I was really hurt that Roxy, too, was leaving me.

Wait—_why_ was I hurt that Roxy was leaving? I felt weird.

"If you three want to pollute yourselves, have at it," she said. "But I'm not going to sit around and watch it. Besides, I'm going back to work."

"Don't count me in on it!" said Daisy, jumping up like she'd been bitten by a snake.

Why was everyone treating Mason and me like lepers? Was this the way Mason always felt? I suddenly felt a strong surge of sympathy—or was it empathy?—for Mason.

"Where are _you_ going?" I asked.

"_I_ have plans," she answered.

"With Giorgio Armani?" I asked.

"I said that's none of your business, Georgia," she reminded me dismissively.

"Oh, yeah? Well, I have plans, too!" I said, a lot louder than I meant to. Everyone in the restaurant turned around to look. I quickly put my head down and started studying my coffee like it was the Cliff's Notes to _War and Peace_.

As soon as Daisy was gone, Mason slid into the booth beside me and put his arm around me. "So, what you say, Georgie, girl, it's just you and me then?" he asked.

He looked sad, like a puppy who'd been abandoned by its siblings to fend for itself, and, dammit, there went that twinge of sympathy—empathy?—again.

Then I thought, "How dare they leave me? Us? _On a fucking Saturday!_"

"I'm in," I said huffily, and continued to drink the coffee that was still burning a hole through my windpipe.

That's when things really started to get fuzzy.


	3. Crimes and Ms Demeanor

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Dead Like Me or any of the associated characters. I only own this story and these chapters.

This chapter is still in George's POV. Again, please feel free to R/R!

**Chapter 3: Crimes and Ms. Demeanor**

"S'what are you up for, then, eh?" Mason asked, goosing me with his elbow. He was especially spry for a dead guy who smelled like the bottom of a whiskey barrel. Then again, maybe that's why he was so lively.

"George. Georgia. Georgie girl. My partner-in-crime."

Clearly, he was feeling no pain, and as he pulled out a flask, right in front of Der Waffle Haus and in plain view of everyone, I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.

"Mason, what are you doing?" I asked, swiping the flask from him and slipping it under my coat. "Are you _trying _to get us arrested?"

"Oh, belt up, Georgia! What's with the 'tude? Don't be such a Roxy," he bitched. "I thought we were going to have some fun tonight—y'know, go for the full Monty! Get completely pissed!" His face fell a little. "Don't tell me you're going to leg it, too, now that the others are gone!"

What in the hell was he talking about? _Belt up? Leg it?_ "For the love of God, Mason, please speak English," I said.

He sighed and gave me his patented, world-weary, "oh, don't be so daft" look.

"What I'm saying is, don't you chicken out on me now, too, Georgia," he said. "'Cause we're having fun tonight. The world is our fucking oyster. We can do whatever we want—throw things at couples in the park, nick some more booze from the market, pretend to be a pair of Jerry's Kids and scam some cash downtown …"

I knew he was probably joking, but I couldn't stop myself from interrupting. "I am _not_ going to jail tonight, Mason, and neither are you."

He looked exasperated. "Well, what, then?" he whined, seemingly at a loss."What does Georgia Lass want to do on this fine evening?"

"I don't know," I said. "_You're_ Mr. 'Ooh, it's Saturday Fucking Night'! And petty larceny isn't an option," I quickly added.

"Well, sod it, then," he said. "Let's get completely bent."

"Um, aren't we already doing that?" I asked.

"Come on, Georgie! Let's get _really_ pissed. You and I have never really done it before—well, not done_ it_, you know, not that I wouldn't or not that you would ..." he stumbled, then trailed off.

His mouth must be really big to be able to take in all that foot, I thought.

"You know what I mean," he said. "It's been a long time since we really loosened up and talked about stuff."

"You want to talk about 'stuff'? With me?" I said. "Why?" I asked, eyeing him warily.

His voice got quiet. "Listen, Georgie, I wasn't going to say anything. But I feel like I know you pretty well, and it's obvious there's something pretty heavy on your mind. But don't worry. I won't press you to talk about it unless you want to. Tonight you can just forget about it and let your old mate Mason take care of _you_ for a change, all right?"

_Well, that would be a change, I thought. Wait, though_—_was I that transparent?_ _So transparent that even Mason could see right through me?_ I wondered. Nevertheless, I had to admit he did have a point.

_Fuck it,_ I thought, and took a big gulp of whiskey right there in the middle of the street.

_Georgia Lass, age 18, killed by a remnant of the space station Mir, was arrested for drinking in public today. Lass, who died two years ago, is survived by her pushy mother, prick father and younger sister, whom she never gave the time of day._

I hate it when my mind goes into overdrive. I took another long drink, hoping the whiskey might burn the thoughts right out of my skull. Mason's liquor still tasted like shit, but it seemed to be doing the trick.

I shuddered a little as the whiskey blazed a path down my throat. Then I said it.

"I've got an idea. Let's go to my house."

Mason looked at me like a petulant child. "In case you've forgotten, Georgia, I'm staying at your house, and I don't want to go home this early on a _fucking_ …"

"… on a _fucking_ Saturday! I know!" I finished, louder than I meant to. People began to look at us, so I lowered my voice a little. "Aww, I'm sorry, Mason. I'm just sayin' ... you know, give it a fucking rest already."

"Besides, I don't mean the house I _rent_," I continued."I mean my _real _house. You know—the one where my mom and sister live. The place where I grew up." _The place I never really meant_ _to leave, I thought to myself. The place I shouldn't have had to leave._

"_That_ house," I finished.

"Erm, right," Mason said. "Right ... Y'know, I hate to be a party pooper, Georgie, but that house isn't exactly _yours_ anymore." He gestured toward the sky as he spoke. "You see, dear Georgie, for all intents and purposes, you and I are what they might call kitty litter. We're compost. Recyclable. Ashes to ashes—"

"All right, I get it!" I said testily. "Dust in the wind. All we are is dust in the wind!" I thought about it a minute and finally said, "Well, _I'm_ going by there. You don't have to go if you don't want to."

"George, you know Rube will have a shit fit if he finds out!" Mason protested.

"Then I guess we'll have to make sure he won't find out, won't we?" I said pointedly. I thought about how I'd spoken to Reggie almost a handful of times since I died—and still, it was probably more than I'd talked to her in the entire six months leading up to my …

My pesky brain was working overtime again. Thankfully, Mason interrupted my thoughts. "Well, I _suppose_ I could go with you," he said. "Just to make sure you're safe and everything." Then, a brainstorm: "Does your father have a liquor cabinet? 'Cause, you know, as long as nobody's finding out anyway, I guess there's no harm, no foul."

Hadn't I told Mason about my parents' divorce? I guessed not.

"My father doesn't live there anymore," I said. "And I'm not planning on actually going in. I just want to look in on them."

"Oh, sorry," he said, and he seemed to be genuinely apologizing. An awkward silence followed until finally, thankfully, he broke it when he blurted out, "Wait-how exactly are we going do that? Peer through the windows like a couple of peeping Toms?"

I thought about it a second. "Yeah," I said, finally.

"OK," Mason agreed. "I just wanted to make sure I was clear on the plan."

Down the street from Der Waffle Haus was a little market where we stopped to pick up some beer and wine, the latter of which I carried in a brown paper bag. Mason did the honors with the beer. It was Guinness, which I couldn't stomach. Apparently, however, Mason could. I was starting to understand more and more what it must be like to be Mason on a daily basis. No wonder he was always fucking up.

"So, is your father dead, then?" He asked indelicately. And then, as if something awful dawned on him, he said, "Oh, God, you didn't have to reap him, did you?"

"No! No, he's not dead," I said. "He's just a forty-year-old man who prefers the company of twenty-year-old women, which is why he doesn't live there anymore."

"Jesus, forty? Really?" Mason queried."Sometimes I'm glad I died so young."

"Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse, eh?" I said sarcastically, but my sarcasm was lost on Mason, who said, "Right on! So," he continued, "what is it with your dad, then? Is he having a mid-life crisis? Because, I mean, y'know, I saw your mom that one time, and I wouldn't kick her out of bed."

"Eww! Shut up!" I said. Then, after my stomach finally stopped churning, I sarcastically added, "Mid-life crisis. Ha! Wow, Mason, however _did_ you guess?"

"Now, now, let's watch our tone, Georgie," Mason said, draining his second Guinness and crumpling it into a Dave-and-Ricky-shaped aluminum mess. "Let me guess—your old man's bought himself a shiny new car and maybe some shiny new hair, and now he's buggering his secretary."

"Something like that," I said. "Except he's not really bald and he doesn't have a secretary, he has a teaching assistant."

A teaching assistant he was buggering, as Mason so delicately put it. My stomach started to churn again.

By that point, we'd reached the house and we were slinking through the bushes across the street like a couple of common criminals when I very unexpectedly stepped into a deep hole. I went down faster than Daisy left alone in a room with Louis B. Mayer.

"Shit! That hurts!"

Mason helped me up.

"Jesus, Georgia, are you all right?" he asked. I didn't answer him verbally; instead, I brushed myself off and started limping back through the bushes.

"I'll take that as an affirmative," Mason said, laughing. "By God, Georgie, I do believe you're as drunk as a lord!"

"Drunk as a lord? I am not!" I yelped. "I'll have you know I'm not even as drunk as a _lady_."

"Oh, yes, you bloody well are!" he said. "Believe me, Georgie. I know the signs. And you, George Lass, are plastered!"

I weakly protested and felt myself blushing.

Blushing? Why was I blushing? I could feel the heat making its way up my neck to my ears. Why should I give a shit if _Mason_ knew I was drunk? Mason _spoke_ drunk. Mason _respected_ drunk. Drunk was Mason's first language and his boss.

And after all, wasn't that the plan? It _was_ fucking Saturday, after all. So why the hell was I blushing? Everybody knows I'm the "I don't give a shit" girl.

"Oh, fuck it! I don't give a shit," I said.

Damned if my leg didn't hurt, though.

"Y'know," Mason said out of the blue. "I think _I've_ had a mid-life crisis."

"And why, pray tell, do you think that?" I asked, amused, my mind no longer occupied by the beety shade of red my face must be sporting.

"Well, I _have_ been through some pretty rough spots y'know, and I _have _slept with a few birds and had a few drinks and things," he said. "To dull the pain. I've had a lot of pain, Georgie."

"Yeah, that sounds really rough," I said. "You do realize you can't have a mid-_life_ crisis when you're _dead_, right? Not to mention you're permanently twenty-something anyway."

"Oh, I can't, can't I, smart girl?" he asked sarcastically. "Then why do I do these things?"

"For God's sake, Mason. They're called substance abuse and promiscuity," I said. "Look them up. Their definitions are beside your picture in the dictionary."

"I can't help it if I'm devastatingly handsome and ladies love me."

I laughed and nearly choked on my wine. God,it was like Betsy Fletcher's slumber party all over again.

_Wow, I am drunk_, I thought.

We watched the house in silence for a while and then Mason turned weirdly serious.

"George, I'm not really good with things like this," he said.

"Things like what?" I asked, growing wary again.

"Things like ... talking about serious things. You know. You can stop me anytime you want," he said. "But I, erm, I, uh, want you to know that no matter what's on your mind, you can talk to me. I can take anything you've got," he offered.

_What the hell?_

"Wow. That was really strange but sweet," I said. "Thank you, Mason."

"You're welcome, Georgia."

We clicked bottles to seal our pact, and I wondered why Mason was worried about me—and how he could tell that what was on my mind was not something that would go away anytime soon, even though he didn't quite know what it was. Or did he? Is that why Mason drank, to forget the pain of everything he'd seen? Or was he just a drunken junkie fuck-up, as Rube always said?

Whatever the situation was with Mason, I was surprised and also a little impressed that he'd seen through my bullshit today. _Because if there's one thing you're really, really good at, George, it's burying your secrets and keeping them there_.

I let the warm wine run down my throat in a long, sweet, smoky stream. It felt good, right.

I could see Joy and Reggie silhouetted against the lights in the den of the house. As usual, it didn't look like they were doing anything. In fact, it didn't look like they were even aware of one another.

I closed my eyes and tried to envision what it was like when I was a silhouette, too, but the images wouldn't come. There would be no remembering, no comfort for me tonight.

So I shut my eyes again and concentrated on the wine. It was cold comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless.


	4. People Who Live in Lass Houses

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Dead Like Me_ or any of the associated characters. I only own this story and these chapters. We're still in George's POV, and still heading toward a George/Mason pairing. Again, please R/R!

**Ch. 4: People Who Live in Lass Houses **

We watched the house and drank in silence for a long time. The two silhouettes came and went, occasionally exchanging what appeared to be small bits of conversation.

_Looks like nothing's changed at the old Lass house_, I thought to myself.

Eventually, the smaller of the two silhouettes went upstairs, presumably to bed. Mason and I stayed crouched in the bushes, watching-partially from curiosity, partially from apathy.

Then, all of a sudden, something happened. _What in the—? _I thought to myself. _What the hell was going on?_

In my two short years as a reaper, I'd seen a lot of fucked-up shit, but I definitely wasn't ready for what I was about to see.

Reggie was sneaking out of the house, climbing out the basement window. I'd seen her do it before, but why was she doing it again?

Mason and I looked at each other. "Hey, that's your fucking sister!" he said.

"Ooh, brilliant deduction, detective," I said. "C'mon," I said, grabbing Mason's sleeve. "We're following her."

We started trailing Reggie from across the street, through the bushes and behind fences. _Great. I noticed that not only did the one leg hurt like hell, but the other had fallen asleep._

Mason noticed me limping. "You all right?" he asked. "D'you need me to carry you?"

"No, I don't need you to carry me!" I said insolently. "Oww!"

Before I could protest, Mason scooped me up.

For someone who looked so scrawny, Mason was actually pretty strong. _Kind of sexily strong_, I thought to myself. _What's up with that?_

We crept through the bushes, with him carrying me like a sack of potatoes and me kicking him as if he were a horse. "Dammit, Mason, hurry up!"

He didn't like that. "C'mon, now, Georgie. It's not the easiest fucking thing in the world, you know, trying to navigate these fucking bloody bushes while carrying a dead girl and trying to hide from cheeky little sis at the same time," Mason said.

"Well, let the dead girl down, then," I said. "She can follow cheeky little sis."

"And how's the dead girl's leg?" he shot back.

"Umm .. the dead girl's not sure because the dead _boy_ won't let her down!"

At that, he put me down. Yeah, my leg still hurt, but at least the other one wasn't asleep anymore. I could keep going.

"Where d'you think she's headed?" Mason asked.

"If I knew that, we wouldn't be following her," I said through gritted teeth, part from pain and part from frustration.

"Now, now, Georgie girl, there's that tone again," Mason scolded. "We talked about that."

But I wasn't paying attention. Reggie had stopped and I stuck my arm out to keep Mason from running into me. Reggie knelt down and peered through the bushes like a thief. _What the fuck was she doing?_

I hadn't noticed it before, but she was wearing a miniskirt and boots, and a tight, striped shirt-a very tight shirt. And was that _eye makeup_ she was wearing? I squinted to get a better look. Sure enough, it was. She looked like a raccoon. A _baby_ raccoon.

After a few minutes, a boy who looked about to be about16 came out.

"Wow, George. Your sister's a little minx!" Mason exclaimed.

"Hey, shut up, R. Kelly! That's my sister you're talking about," I said.

"Ooh, sissy's a naughty, naughty girl," he taunted.

"What part of that did you not understand?" I asked pissily. "The 'shut' or the 'up'?"

"Jesus, take it easy, Georgie," Mason said. "I'm only joking. Besides, didn't _you_ ever sneak out of your house to meet a boy?"

I gave him my own "don't be so daft" look. It took him a sec, but I could see what I meant finally dawn on him.

"Oh, _riiiight_. The whole virgin thing," he said.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a virgin anymore," I said, matter-of-factly. "Just to clarify."

"Wait, what?" Mason asked, with much more surprise than I felt was warranted. "You're not? When did this happen?"

"Probably when you were passed out in a gutter," I said. Reggie and the guy had stopped talking and started walking again. I pulled Mason along behind me.

"Ooh—I know! It was that Chip fellow!" Mason said.

"Walking!" I said. "And his name is Trip."

"Chip, Trip, Skip, whatever," he said. "Well, was it him? It was, wasn't it? Am I right?"

"None of your business," I said.

"Aww, c'mon, George! _You're_ the one who brought it up," he said, sulking. "I'm just trying to be a pal, y'know? Show a bit of interest in your life ... or your _afterlife_, or whatever."

Then he said, "I know you fancied him. That Trip fellow."

I sighed. "You're right, Mason. I did like him once upon a time. I'm still not telling you, though."

We kept walking. After a minute or so, Mason asked, "Hey, does Rube know?"

"God, no!" I said, horrified by the thought. "What would I do? Go up to him and say, 'Hey, Boss, how's the bacon look today? Oh, and by the way, what's the policy on reaper sex? Because I think I'm going to get me some'?"

"Wait—so it was reaper-on reaper action, then?" Mason queried. "Do I know him?"

"Ooh! Or was it a her?" he asked excitedly.

"I already told you I'm not telling you," I answered.

"Georgie, there's nothing wrong with doing it," he said. "I don't think any of the rest of us have exactly refrained since we … well, you know, since we kicked the bucket. It's not as if the ol' equipment doesn't still work."

"Well, bully for you," I snapped. Then, "Hold up—Reggie's stopped," I said. I was half serious and half trying to change the subject. I took another big gulp of wine to fortify myself for what I suspected was coming. And sure enough, I watched as my little sister—_holy shit!_—as I watched my little sister making out with that boy.

"Oh. My. God! She's kissing him!" I said indignantly. "Reggie's kissing some random, skeezy boy!"

"Wow. Those are some brilliant detective skills you've got going on, Inspector Lass," Mason quipped, imitating me.

"Shh, be quiet!," I snipped."This is _so _not the time for that. We've got to do something!"

"And exactly who is this 'we' you're talking about?" Mason asked. "What, are wegoing to charge in like the Spanish Inquisition and say, 'Excuse us, but did you know this is a no-snogging zone?'"

"You're _not_ helping," I said.

_Shit! What to do, what to do … Think, George! Think!_

Unfortunately—or was it fortunately?—the wine had done its job. In fact, it had done such a number on my brain that I couldn't think fast enough. So as Reggie and the boy kept kissing, I kept watching. I felt helpless. I couldn't move; I was frozen to the fucking spot.

"Oh, no … why is she kissing him?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"For someone who claims she's not a virgin anymore, that's a pretty stupid question," Mason said.

"I'm not _claiming_ anything. I'm merely stating a fact," I said defensively. "By the way, did you just call me stupid?"

"No, I did not," Mason said with a sigh. "If there's one thing you're most certainly not, it is stupid."

"Or a virgin," I reminded him.

We stood there a while longer, watching Reggie and her boyfriend—_Fuck! Did Reggie have a boyfriend?_—kiss. Finally, they unscrewed their lips long enough to begin walking back toward what I assumed must be his house, behind the mysterious bushes from whence he came.

"Ohh! Moving!" I said, yanking Mason along behind me. He fell forward clumsily. We backtracked through the bushes and fencing as stealthily as two drunken, undead reapers—one with a bum leg, on top of it all—could. It didn't matter. Reggie was so engrossed in that guy she wouldn't have noticed if an airplane—_or a fucking flaming toilet seat from an old Russian space station, _I thought bitterly—landed on her head. She was ovbiously into that boy.

_Grr. That fucking boy!_

They kissed for quite some time before he crept back through the bushes from whence he came and Reggie started back toward our house. She was smiling that goofy smile I'd seen myself smile a couple of times. Eww!

I could see Joy's silhouette still sitting in a chair by the window, apparently reading, completely oblivious to what had just gone down.

_When did Reggie become so damned sneaky?_ I wondered. _I mean, she'd always been a secretive kid, but she'd veered into downright Rebel-Without-a-Clue territory._

Mason and I stood, wordlessly, in the bushes across the street for a while, watching Joy's silhouette and drinking wine and Guinness before making the way out of the bushes and back onto the sidewalk. We kept walking quietly for a little while longer until finally Mason broke the silence.

"So, Miss Not-a-Virgin," he began. "Who was it, then? Please? Tell your mate Mason. C'mon, you know you can trust me," he pleaded.

I rolled my eyes and took another long swig of wine, draining the first bottle. I wondered what would happen if I broke the bottle over his head.

In the end, though, I thought better of it and threw the empty bottle toward a stop sign instead. It shattered neatly across the white "S-T-O-P" and a trickle of wine ran down the red octagon. Somehow, I suspected, it wasn't quite as satisfying.


	5. Five Guys and a Girl

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own _DLM_ or any of these characters; I only own this story. Please feel free to R&R!

**Chapter 5: Five Guys and a Girl**

We opened the door to my house a little past midnight.

I had forgotten about my run-in with the flaming toilet seat of death, but now my mind was reeling from what I'd just seen my little sister doing. I needed another drink. I headed for the kitchen. Mason sat down on the couch.

"Jack, Jim, George or Glen?" I yelled.

"Who?" he shouted back.

"Jack, Jim, George or Glen?" I slurred. "Alcohol, you idiot. You know: Daniels, Beam, Dickel or Fiddich?"

"Oh," he said. "Ah ... erm… how 'bout all of'em?"

"'K."

I opened the fridge to see what, if anything, we had to mix the stuff with and I called out, "It appears we also have some wine spritzers."

"Wine spritzers? Who the fuck drinks wine spritzers?" Mason asked.

"Who the fuck do you think?" I answered.

At the same time, we both said, "Daisy. Daisy Adair." I started laughing and he did, too.

I walked into the living room carrying a tray full of booze, two glasses of ice and a 2-liter Diet Coke. _I'm quite the little multi-tasker, I thought. Dolores was right!_

I poured some Jack Daniels into my glass and then filled the rest with Diet Coke. Mason filled his glass with straight Scotch.

"S'what do you have on the stereo?" Mason slurred.

"I dunno," I said. "What do you want to hear?"

"I dunno," he said back. "What d'ya got?"

"You already asked me that," I said, slugging him in the arm and smiling.

_Wait—why was I flirting with Mason? Then again, I've always thought he was pretty hot ... No, no! Bad, booze, bad!_

"Oh," he said, laughing. "I suppose I did ... S'what _do_ you have on the stereo?"

That made both of us laugh. We were both working on polishing off our second drinks when I noticed he was looking at me strangely.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing," he said. He drained the last of his Glenfiddich and sat his glass on the table, never breaking eye contact.

I sipped my Jack and Coke.

"Jesus, Mason, _what_?" I asked again, slightly annoyed. Mostly I was unnerved by the way he was looking—no, staring—at me.

Why the fuck _was_ he staring at me? He was looking at me with that look—the same kind of look he used to give Daisy, and the same kind of look I'd catch her giving him when she thought no one was looking.

_A look of longing ... _A shiver ran up my spine._  
_

"Mason, are you on something?" I asked. I was slurring even worse by this point but I couldn't control it.

"Am I on something? What the fuck makes you think I'm on something?" he said, acting offended. "Why? ... You got anything?"

"No!" I slurred. I found myself shifting in my seat. I took another sip.

He was beginning to invade my personal space. His eyes were beginning to glaze over and I sensed it was from more than just the booze. In fact, I'd knew I'd seen that look before. His eyes were all glassy and intense, like Trip's, right before he and I … I shuddered. Yeah, Mason's eyes looked just like _that._

He broke the silence. "George," he said,"do you know you're fucking beautiful?"

"Yeah, right, I'm a regular Miss Fucking America" I said, taking another nervous sip and looking away. I was blushing again but I couldn't stop it.

"No, I mean it—you are," he said. "Miss Fucking America hasn't got shit on you. In fact," he continued, leaning in a bit closer, like he had the secret to the universe, "I've thought it from the moment I met you. When you were walking with Rube, and I'd just popped those two losers in the crack house … do you remember? You had this, I don't know ... you had this fucking _glow_ about you. I remember I wanted desperately to say something witty to impress you but nothing would come out."

"Um, Mason," I said, "I hate to burst your bubble, but I was glowing because I'd just been _cremated _by a _1500-degree toilet seat_."

_It was weird. I'd spent all day freaking out about the day I died, and now all I could think about was it was the day I first met Mason._

I wondered if I should confess to him that, on that same day, I'd wanted to impress him, too; to say something flirty and charming, but as usual, the words wouldn't form in my stubborn fucking mouth?

"Fuck you, George. I'm serious," Mason said. Despite his initial insult, I believed him.

Shit! _Mason_ was coming on to me!_ Wait ...__Mason was coming on to me._

_What the fuck should I do?_ I panicked and flinched a bit. I suddenly wished I was Daisy. She'd know what to do right now. Or Betty.

God, I really missed Betty sometimes.

But it was just me, and I had to think fast. Too bad my brain was still on hammered time.

Finally I said, "Mason, what are you doing? Aren't you, like, all into Daisy?"

He looked at me quizzically, so I batted my eyelashes and said, "You _do _remember her, don't you? _Daisy?_ _Daisy Adair_?"

Mason looked offended, like I'd just accused him of being a mass murderer or something.

"Daisy? What makes you think I'm … or I was … or whatever … into Daisy?" he asked.

"Well, you are, aren't you?" I said.

"That's fucking blimey," he said.

I looked at him exactly like I used to look at my parents when they said they hadn't been arguing. Only with Mason, I didn't even have to cock an eyebrow before he completely cracked.

"Oh, Christ, all right! Fine. Yes, George, I _was_ into Daisy," he said. "Go ahead, then. Just rub my face in it, why don't you?"

"Well, that's interesting you'd say that, Mason," I said, my synapses suddenly firing a little bit faster. "Because speaking of faces, if you're so into Daisy, why are you all up in mine?"

I shook my head. _Clarity, George. Clarity._

Wasn't happening.

Mason was still arguing. "Oh, please! I haven't been interested in Daisy in a _very_ long time," he said, obviously lying. I gave him another look, and this time I cocked the eyebrow.

"Oh, OK, fine! But I swear to you I haven't even thought about Daisy for a couple of months," he said. "Or weeks at least. Since Ray. Fucking Ray. Ray the graveling, the graveling _I_ made when I killed him and then you _really_ killed him, and since we all wanted to kill him anyway I'm not really sorry about it."

"But no, I'm not so much into Daisy," he argued.

"Oh, really?" I asked. He could tell I didn't believe him.

"Yes, fucking really!" He was starting to get all up in my personal space again.

_Calm down calm down calm down,_ I said to myself, repeating it in my head like a mantra. This is _Mason_ we're talking about.

_God, if it was just Mason, then why was my heart pounding like I was Robert Downey on a coke binge?_

I snapped out of it, I noticed Mason was getting slowly closer, so I responded the only sensible way I knew how: I began rambling. "Well, it's kind of hard to believe, Mason, since you're always, 'Ooh, Daisy, let me worship you from afar,' or, 'Ooh, Daisy, let me worship you from a-close.'"

I knew I had kinda stopped making sense, but he actually seemed to be following along.

"Georgie, I'm not always looking at Daisy, you know," he said, and he started whispering close to my ear. _Oh, God! The hairs on the back of my neck stood up._ "Sure, I like Daisy, don't get me wrong," he said. "But Daisy's, you know, uncomplicated … Daisy's … easy," he finished.

"OK, so maybe 'easy' is not the right word," he said and when I cocked another brow he said, "OK, maybe 'easy' _is_ the right word. Not that she was ever easy to me, mind you."

For a split second, Mason actually looked introspective. "Y'know, she really is kind of a real pain in the arse."

"Noooo! You're kidding."

"Dammit, George! Stop being such a smartass for one bloody second and just listen to me," Mason said, clearly frustrated.

"Look," he offered. "I know I made a fool of myself about Daisy. But at least I usually know where I stand with her … mainly from at least 500 feet away."

I laughed. "Yeah, OK, so what are you saying?" I asked, genuinely confused. I didn't feel so well all of the sudden.

_Holy shit! When did the room start spinning?_ I shut my eyes and tried to steady myself. Mason sat down beside me and pushed my hair back out of my face.

"Oy, are you all right?" he said. "You're turning green!"

"I'm fine," I lied. "I'm just doing my Hulk impression." I opened my eyes a little.

Now it was his turn to cock an eyebrow at me. He went on.

"OK. What I'm trying to say is ... you … you're … _harder_ … than that," he said. I gave him a confused look. "With you, I have to work. Jesus, Georgia, you mean you really don't know how complicated you are? I mean, you have to know that about yourself, right? But it's _good_ ... it's a good complicated, you know? And contrary to popular belief, I'm not daft. I know Daisy gets off on me following her around. But it's not like I feel special or anything, 'cause I know she loves having _anyone_ follow her around. But I can't follow you around because it's different. You'd kick my ass or something!"

I giggled and then hiccupped. He got serious.

"Dammit, Georgia, stop laughing and fucking listen to me! What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to say? What do you _want_ me to do?"

God, what _did_ I want him to do? I didn't think I could admit it to myself. He was looking at me expectantly, so I started talking.

"Oh, so it just came down to Daisy being easier, and you not wanting to fight me?" I said. "So that's why you're telling me this now? Wow, Mason, that's hot."

_God, I sounded like some dumb celebrity socialite twat. Seriously, why should I even know who the hell someone like Paris__ Hilton is or that she says that shit? Fuck the American media!_

"God, sometimes I hate Americans!" I blurted out randomly.

Mason looked confused. "What?" he asked.

"I said, sometimes I fucking hate Americans," I repeated.

"Where did that come from?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. Then I leaned in and whispered, "Mason, I think I'm drunk."

He laughed.

"Well, then," he said, with a satisfied smirk, "if you fucking hate Americans, I suppose it's a good thing I'm English, now, isn't it?"

He was so close I could feel his breath against my face.

"Er, yeah, I suppose," I said. I felt like a God damned James Bond martini: I was shaken but I didn't stir.

_Shit, George,_ I thought._ What the fuck are you supposed to do now?_ The way Mason was looking at me, I'd wager he was thinking the same thing.


	6. Melts in Your Mouth, Melts in Your Hands

**Chapter 6: Melts in Your Mouth, Melts in Your Hands**

That's when it happened: Mason leaned in and kissed me and I didn't stop him.

Sure, we'd kissed before, when he thought he was leaving with the purple Post-It deal, but this time it was different. This time there was a sense of urgency that I'd never felt before. He had started out kissing me soft and gentle, like they do on TV, but now he was kissing me hard and deep—a messy, real-life kiss. And I wasn't doing anything except kissing him back and letting him probe my mouth.

_His mouth doesn't taste like I thought it would_, I thought to myself. Daisy always says Mason's breath is bad, but he actually tastes like toothpaste.

And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

Besides, that didn't stop _her_ from kissing him, did it? I don't think so. _Fucking Daisy._

We fell backward on the couch and I could suddenly feel, er, little Mason—_on second thought, make that not-so-little-Mason!_—pressing against my leg. I gasped, and dropped my Jack and Coke, spilling it all over the rug.

"Shit!"

Mason jerked up. "What?" he asked, breathing heavily. "D'you want me to stop?"

_Did I? God, no. _But I didn't answer. Instead, I said, confused, "I … I dropped my drink."

"Oh," he said, and things were suddenly awkward.

"Er, I guess I'd better clean it up or Daisy'll go batshit," I said. My head was swimming.

I scooped the ice back into the glass and carried it into the kitchen, where I wet a towel. I went back into the living room and began scrubbing, softly at first, then harder and harder. We sat in silence for a moment as I scrubbed, until Mason said, "George, you're scrubbing so hard you're gonna wear the bloody pile down. Here."

He put his hands over my hands and began rubbing the carpet slowly and deliberately. It took me a minute to realize we were kind of staring at each other.

_Was it going to happen again?_

"I, um … I think we got it," I said, standing up and heading toward the kitchen with the wet rag. Mason drew back his hands and sat back down on the couch.

When I came back into the living room, I stood in the middle of the floor with my arms crossed protectively around my middle.

"Georgia," he began quietly, "I'm sorry if I upset you when … when … when I, well, you know. When …"

"When we played tonsil hockey?" I finished.

He laughed, but it was a quick and nervous laugh. "Right. 'Tonsil hockey,'" he said. The smile faded from his face and I could see he was concerned. He had the same look on his face like he always did when we had to reap a kid. Protective. Ashamed. Sorry.

"I, erm, I wanted to kiss you, y'know, but I didn't know if you wanted to kiss me," he said expectantly.

"I'm fine," I said, avoiding the question and still clutching my midsection. "Seriously. Everything is A-OK."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah," I said, a little too quickly and he cocked his head. "Yeah. I'm sure. I'm, uh, just gonna go to bed now, I think," I said.

"All right, then," he said. "Good night."

"'Night."

I started toward my room and tripped over the rug and almost fell straight into a chair. _Jesus, I really am drunk. _I stopped and regained my bearings. Then I walked upstairs to my room and shut the door.

A zillion thoughts wracked my brain. I wanted them all to stop but they wouldn't, not even when I pulled my t-shirt over my head and slipped under the covers. I stared at the ceiling for a long time. I was very aware that Mason was right under me.

_He's right under me._

For a long time, I wondered what he was doing. Was he thinking about me? Was he, too, replaying the scene on the couch over and over in his head? Could he still taste me on his lips, as I could him?

God! I _had_ to stop thinking about it. My mother always told me I think too effing much. Maybe this time she was right. I closed my eyes and waited for sleep to come.

I passed the fuck out.

**…**

Downstairs, he was sprawled out on the couch. He wondered what she was doing. Was she thinking about him? Could she still taste him on her lips, as he could her? Was she replaying what had happened just a few minutes before over and over again in her head?

_That sweet, sweet head … it never stopped moving, never stopped going. She was always thinking, pondering, debating, questioning. What was she questioning now? _

It had all gone by too fast. They were sitting there, talking, then they were kissing—really fucking kissing—then ... nothing.

_Did she realize she was right on top of him right now?_

"Mason, old boy, it's not doing you a fuck's worth of good to think about it now," he sighed to himself. He stared at the ceiling and waited for sleep to come.

It never did.


	7. Yak, Yak, Yak

**Ch. 7: Yak, Yak, Yak **

The alarm went off way too early.

But it was one of those perfect, crisp mornings: the sun was shining, the birds were singing and there wasn't a cloud in the sky.

"Shut the fuck up!" I yelled out the window, and I reflexively recoiled from the sheer volume of my own voice.

Ugh. I felt like shit. Why the fuck _was_ it so damn sunny outside, anyway? Didn't the weather gods know that this was Seattle, home of Starbucks, suicidal rock icons, and gray, gray, rain?

"What, you didn't get the fucking memo?" I yelled again, to no one in particular. And that's when it hit me: _Oh, shit! The memo. Memos. Post-Its. Shit!_

I vaguely remembered Rube saying we were meeting early at Der Waffle Haus. It was already 7:30. What was "early," exactly? Fuck! I shot out of bed and pulled my t-shirt over my head as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Jesus, I looked like death. _Insert punchline here,_ I thought.

Seriously, though. What the hell did I do to myself last night? Why did I let myself get so fucked up? I looked like fucking Mas—

Shit.

_Mason. I had made out with Mason._

As I said the words in my head, the panic rose in my stomach and the bile rose in my throat. I ran out the door in my panties, fastening my bra as I raced toward the toilet. Daisy was already in the bathroom. I shot past her.

"God, Georgia, you look like shit!" she said, whipping around.

_Bleaaarrgggghhhh! _Thank God I made it to the toilet in time.

"Eww!" Daisy said. "Could you please wait until I'm done before you vomit up your intestines?"

_Bleaaarrgggghhhh! Oh, God, I was going to die._ I put my hand over my eyes and sank back against the wall, letting my body go slack against the cool tile floor, which actually felt good.

I was too weak to even make a snarky comeback to Daisy so I shot her what I thought would pass for a dirty look.

She knelt down in front of me and scrunched up her pert little nose. "God, Georgia! What did you do last night?"

"I don't know," I mumbled.

"What?" She said.

"I said, 'I don't know,'" I repeated, a bit louder.

Shit! Here it comes again. _Bleaaarrgggghhhh!_

"Eww, eww, eww, Georgia!" Daisy said, shooting straight up and stumbling backward like I was a vampire out to suck her blood. She was wringing her hands as she spoke. "Give a girl some warning next time!"

She studied me like a lab rat as I slumped back against the wall. "Were you with Mason all night?" she asked.

"Um, yeah," I said.

"All night?" she repeated. "Alone?" She snorted. "Well, what did you two do?"

"Ugh. Kick it down a couple thousand notches, would ya, Daisy?" I said. She was looking at me expectantly, cross, with her arms folded in tightly front of her like a prim Catholic schoolteacher. _Which would make me laugh if I wasn't so damn sick, _I thought.

Then, it dawned on me … she was jealous! I would have loved to have used that ammunition, if only I wasn't about to barf again and if only I hadn't … if I hadn't—_oh, my, God! I made out with Mason!_

_Bleaaarrgggghhhh!_

"Georgia! Jesus!" Daisy said, obviously disgusted, although she didn't budge from the spot. Normally, she would have bolted at the first sign of a dry heave, even if her hair was only half-done, but she this time, she was sticking around.

_Yeah, she was jealous all right. She was sticking around because she wanted the details._

I finally felt empty, so I slumped down on the cold tile floor. "Ugh," I managed.

She went back to unrolling her curls and studying her reflection in the mirror. "Well, I do have to say Mason doesn't look half as bad as you, although I guess he's got, oh, forty years or so of practice on you."

I stayed in my position on the cold floor for a few seconds before what she'd said registered. "Wait," I said. "He's still here?"

"Who, Mason?" Daisy asked, unrolling her last curl and shaking out her hair.

"No, Santa Claus," I said, slowly sitting back up. "Yeah, Mason."

She shrugged. "He's downstairs making coffee," she said. "He looks perfectly normal."

"Then again," she said, turning to look at me, "neither 'perfect' nor 'normal' really describes Mason, but you know what I mean." She turned back to the mirror and dusted her face with powder.

All the dust made me choke a little, but I held it together.

"There," she said. "All finished." She started out of the bathroom, turning back once to admonish me. "You know, Georgia, you'd better get a move on. You really do look like hell."

"Yak, yak, yak." I managed to flip her off once before sinking back against the tile.


	8. Ticking Clocks and Time Bombs

_**Note:** I still don't own "Dead Like Me" or any of its characters, which are the property of MGM and (formerly) Showtime, nor do I own the lyrics to "Clocks," which are the property of Coldplay, Mr. Gwyneth and Capitol Records._

**Chapter 8: Ticking Clocks and Time Bombs**

I was still sitting there, procrastinating, somehow managing the impressive feat of thinking and not thinking at the same time, when I noticed someone was standing at the door.

"George."

It was Mason. He was standing there in the doorway, braced against the frame. His hands were bare. It was one of the first times in a long time I'd seen him without those silly gloves on.

"Uh, hey, Mason."

"Hey," he said, and I noticed he was looking at me strangely. "Um, Daisy … er, Daisy said to, um, come and get you before Rube has our asses."

His eyes darted guiltily down to the floor.

Shit. I suddenly remembered I was still in my fucking underwear. _What the hell is wrong with me? _I thought, grabbing a towel from the rack by the shower and wrapping it around me as I darted toward the sink.

Mason didn't move, but I could feel his eyes on me as I splashed cold water all over my face. I let out a long sigh and looked at myself in the mirror as I dried myself off. _Wow._ _Daisy was right. I did look like_ _shit. And in spite of myself, I found myself wishing I didn't._

I grabbed my toothbrush and broke the awkward silence. "So, uh, how late are we?" I asked, squeezing paste out in a neat line across my brush.

"Um, well, we're, uh, we're not technically late _yet_," Mason said, and he sounded as out-of-sorts as I felt. "But Daisy said to come up here and tell you if you don't hurry that we will be." Once again, he averted his eyes, looking back behind him. I knew he was looking for Daisy.

I found myself getting angry. "And who are you? Daisy's fucking errand boy?" I asked, my mouth full of toothpaste. I looked at him challengingly.

Shit. Now _I_ was jealous? This was ridiculous! I found myself brushing hard and fast. I might not be able to keep my life—excuse me; my _un_life—straight, but I could at least get my teeth really fucking clean.

"Oh, bugger!" Mason whispered, looking out into the hallway again and quickly shutting the door as he stepped inside.

"Mason, what the hell are you—"

"Shh!" He put his finger over his mouth and pantomimed shushing me. "No, Georgia. I'm not Daisy's fucking errand boy, all right?" he said. "In fact, I lied. It was _my _idea to come up here. I wanted to make sure you're OK! Jesus!"

His voice softened and he let out a long sigh. "So are you, then? Are you OK?"

He looked at me searchingly. I looked down and shrugged my shoulders. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said and spit the toothpaste out, watching it circle down the drain in a swirl of water as I rinsed out the sink. I grabbed my deodorant out of the medicine cabinet and furiously rubbed some on.

_Real sexy, Georgia_, I thought.

But Mason didn't seem to notice or care. "Are you sure?" he asked, still whispering, and still looking at me intensely. He raked his bare hand through his messy hair. "Listen, I don't know what to say," he began. "Georgia, I swear to you I didn't expect what happened last night to happen. Honest."

I shrugged my shoulders again but felt myself being betrayed by the warm flush that was rising rapidly from my chest to cheeks. I turned back and pretended to attend to my reflection but I forged ahead anyway. "What? Are you saying I did?" I said angrily, looking at him behind me in the mirror. It came out way louder than I'd expected. I lowered my voice to a whisper and turned back around. "Besides, it's not like anything really happened, anyway, right?"

"Right. Right," Mason agreed, maybe just a little too quickly. "You're right."

_Huh …?_

I changed the subject. "So … uh, where are your gloves?" I asked, flipping my hair upside down and starting to brush.

Just then, the door opened behind Mason, hitting him in the butt as Daisy made her way in. "Here they are," she said, dangling them in front of his face with a suggestive look.

Then she looked at both of us with an amused expression. "Well, well. Isn't this an interesting little tableau, now?" she said, smiling a false smile.

_I'm Daisy. Daisy Adair._ I could just see her in my head, smiling that disingenuous smile and extending her hand to some poor, hapless schmuck … some poor, hapless schmuck like Mason.

_Fuck it._ I flipped my head right side up and shook out my hair, then turned to face them.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what you mean," I said. "But if you two will let me get dressed, all of us in this interesting little tableau can be on our interesting fucking ways."

I smiled sarcastically as I sidled by them out the door and down the hall to my room. As I pulled a shirt over my head, I could hear them talking in hushed tones.

_Shit. What was he telling her? He wasn't exactly the most subtle person when it came to, well, anything. _

_Then again, maybe he was just hitting on her, as usual_.

I wasn't happy when I realized that the second scenario made me much more uncomfortable than the first. I began dressing quickly. I slipped into the first pair of jeans I saw, slid my feet into the tennis shoes by the door and grabbed my jacket, as I headed out into the hallway.

"I'm ready," I yelled.

Daisy emerged from the bathroom first. "Well, well, our little Georgia lives!" she said, a bit too brightly. _"Little Georgia?"_ I thought. Then: _Y'know, she really doesn't look very happy. I wonder what they were talking about._

_Surely he didn't tell her …_

My heart leaped into my throat.

He was right behind her, still wearing that puppy-dog expression he'd had since I first saw him in the bathroom doorway. _God, she really could lead him around by the short and curlies, couldn't she?_ I unwittingly shot him a dirty look, my heart sinking back into its rightful place in my ribcage.

He looked back at me, knitting his eyebrows together, llooking confused.

_What the hell was up with that? _I wondered as we all descended the stairs in a silent little line.

W_hatever_. _I am so sick of this "interesting little tableau." She can have him if she wants him so bad._

I grabbed my keys off the table by the door. "I'm driving if you two want a ride," I said. Daisy responded by skipping past me out the door and sliding into the passenger seat of the Mustang, still smiling that fake smile.

"I'd love a ride," Mason blurted out, first looking at me impishly, then suddenly looking down very fast. _Shit. Did I just catch him blushing?_

He quickly hopped into the back of the car, averting his eyes and looking confused and embarrassed as he slumped down against the seat.

I started the car and reflexively turned up the radio as loud as it would go.

_Lights go out and I can't be saved  
__Tides that I tried to swim against  
__Have brought me down upon my knees  
__Oh I beg, I beg and plead  
__Singing  
__Come out of things unsaid  
__Shoot an apple off my head  
__And a trouble that can't be named  
__A tiger's waiting to be tamed  
__Singing  
__You are, you are  
__Confusion that never stops  
__The closing walls and the ticking clocks  
__Gonna come back and take you home  
__I could not stop, that you now know  
__Singing  
__Come out upon my seas  
__Cursed missed opportunities  
__Am I part of the cure?  
__Or am I part of the disease?_

Daisy looked over at me, smiling like the cat who ate the canary. I didn't dare look back at Mason in the rearview mirror.

I took a deep breath and put the car into reverse.

_And we're off._


	9. Waffling

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own "Dead Like Me" or any of its characters, which are the property of MGM and (formerly) Showtime. In Georgia's POV until the bottom, when we get an omniscient narrator and a tiny bit of Mason's POV.

**Chapter 9: Waffling**

By the time we got to Der Waffle Haus, I knew Daisy could tell something was up. Not only did we ride in complete silence all the way there, but I noticed her Cheshire cat grin getting wider as she'd look over at me, then back at Mason, then over at me, then back at Mason. I pretended not to notice and he pretended to nod off.

He hadn't really been asleep, though. Once he'd caught me sneaking a peek at him in the rearview mirror and I caught him peeking back. _Shit!_ I got so flustered, I swerved toward oncoming traffic and Daisy let out a high-pitched squeal and grabbed at the steering wheel.

"Shit, Georgia!" she said. "Are you trying to kill us all again?"

_OK, so maybe we hadn't ridden in complete silence …_

Whatever the case, by the time we got to Reaper Central, we were all tip-toeing around each other like a bunch of nervous cats. I was sure that if either Mason or Daisy brushed up against me, I'd jump right out of my skin. I just prayed Rube wouldn't notice what was going on. I took a deep breath as we walked in.

"You're late," he said, looking right at me as we took our seats at the table.

I looked at my watch. "Only by two minutes," I argued. "Geez, Rube, lighten up."

"Well, now you sound like Fuck-Up over there," he said, indicating Mason. "Two minutes is two minutes I could be spending doing something else."

"Oh, really?" I challenged. "Like what?"

"Passing out these Post-Its, for one," he began, and started peeling off the little yellow sheets and sticking them to the table in front of each of us with his thumb and forefinger. "I could be finishing a waffle, paying my tab, lighting up a cigar, mailing a letter, kicking off my shoes, putting on a record … want me to go on?"

"No, Rube. We get the point," I said. "I'm sorry we're late."

Then, just what I was afraid would happen happened. "We were almost _really_ late," Daisy blurted, and I could tell she was getting ready to open her big mouth. I wondered what it would look like with her menu shoved in it. "Because not only did Georgia have the urge to purge all morning, she almost killed us all-_again!_-on the way over here."

"Did not!" I said defensively.

"Did too," Daisy shot back, matter-of-factly. "Back me up, Mason," she said, turning and looking at him for support. I'm sure she was batting those big blue eyes.

"Erm … I dunno," he said. "I was having a nap."

Daisy let out an exasperated sigh. "She was, and she did, and you know it!" she said, clearly frustrated.

I was grateful that Mason hadn't narced on me, but I was also a little pissed he hadn't taken up for me just a wee bit more. Still, I didn't dare look at him for fear my face would turn 75 shades of red right there in front of God, Death and everybody.

"I warned you not to get yourself into trouble last night," Rube chided in his best "I-told-you-so" voice, wagging a finger at me.

I rolled my eyes and said, "Yes, Dad, I heard you the first time," I said snarkily.

He gave me a disappointed look. "Did you stay out with this one all night?" he asked, indicating Mason again with a nod of his head.

_Dammit, I was blushing anyway_. "Yeah," I said, and at the same time, Mason answered "No."

Then I quickly shot back, "No," while Mason answered "Yes."

I spoke up before Mason could say anything else. "What I mean is, yes we hung out, but no, I wasn't with him all night."

"Well, I didn't expect you two had snuggled up to go to sleep together," Rube said sarcastically, not knowing how close he was to the actual truth. Now it was Mason's turn to blush. _Shit, it was so obvious! My heart started pounding._ Daisy gave me that Cheshire grin again and Roxy said, "Are you feeling OK, George? Your face is really red … and yet kinda green at the same time."

"I'm fine," I lied. "It's just … really hot in here."

"It is?" chirped Daisy. "Huh. I think it feels nice."

Just then, I was saved by the bell. Kiffany came up with her order pad and a pot of coffee. "Can I get you all anything?" she asked me, Daisy and Mason. "Or you all anything else?" she said to Roxy and Rube.

"No thanks, Kiffany," I said, standing up. "I actually have some stuff I have to do this morning."

"Peanut, you really should eat something," Rube said. "At the very least, it'll make you feel better."

"Uh, thanks, but I'm not really hungry," I said, maneuvering my way around Kiffany. "I'll just take this," I said, grabbing my Post-It, "and I'll get going."

"Suit yourself," said Rube.

I could feel Mason looking at me, and I knew he could see through my lie. In fact, I was pretty sure everyone at the table could. But at that point I didn't care—I just knew I had to get the fuck out of there, and fast.

"So I'll see you guys, uh, later," I said, and strode purposefully out the door.

**…**

As soon as Georgia had left, Roxy asked, "What the hell's the matter with her this morning?"

"Why don't you ask Mason?" Daisy said snidely. "I'm sure he knows."

"How the fuck would I know?" he said defensively. "I'm not a mind-reader."

"Riiight," Daisy said, her lips curling into an amused smile. "How _would_ you know?"

"That's right—how would I?" Mason said again. "It's not like I'm dear old daddy."

"Thank God for that," Daisy said, only half under her breath, and Mason shot her a dirty look.

_Jesus! Why had he ever thought he loved her? _he wondered.

"What's going on with you three?" Rube said, looking pointedly at Daisy and Mason. "Is there something happening that I should know about?"

"No, nothing," Mason said, a little too nonchalantly.

Rube caught it, and said, "Daisy?"

"No, not that I know of," she lied, wearing her best innocent expression.

He studied them both, warily, for a moment before pulling on his sweater. "Well, that's good to know, because you two are working a reap together in about 45 minutes," he said, looking at his watch.

"The Marquis Grand?" Daisy said, examining her Post-It note. "That dump? Great."

"C'mon, then," Mason said. "Let's just go and get it over with."

"Don't sound so excited," Daisy shot back.

When they were gone, Rube and Roxy looked at each other, confused. Finally, Rube broke the silence. "You gonna finish that waffle?"

Roxy pushed her plate toward him and sighed.


	10. D Nyed

Disclaimer: I still don't own "Dead Like Me" or any of its characters, which are the property of MGM and (formerly) Showtime.

**Chapter 10: D. Nyed**

Daisy and Mason stood outside The Marquis Grand looking for clues. According to their Post-Its, their marks were either a couple or a parent and child: D. and A. Nye, Marquis Grand Hotel, Room 606, 10:17 a.m.

In its day, the Marquis Grand had been a real beauty. Everyone who was anyone in Seattle or passing through stayed there. _I could've ended up here_, Daisy thought bitterly. _I could've been a somebody_.

But now, like a horribly disfigured corpse, it wasn't even a shadow of its former self. It had become a haven for people down on their luck—the unemployed, the underemployed, degenerates and junkies. You could almost smell the death coming out of it.

_I could've ended up here_, Mason thought, shuddering. _Maybe Rube is right: maybe I am nothing more than a fuck-up and a junkie. No wonder Georgia doesn't want me._

"Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?" Daisy asked flirtatiously.

"Erm, nothing," Mason said.

"Yeah … that wasn't exactly a 'nothing' face," she argued.

"Sure it was," Mason said dismissively. But that didn't satisfy Daisy Adair. She kept staring at him pointedly until he finally said, "Got something on your mind, Daisy?"

"Hmm," Daisy said, and kept her eyes level with his. "I want to know what the big secret is."

"Big secret?" asked Mason, playing dumb. He was very good at it. "What big secret?"

She saw through it. "Don't act dumb, Mason. It doesn't work with me. You know perfectly well what big secret—the one between you and Georgia. The one that's sent you two huddling behind closed doors and the one that's kept you two from being able to look at each other all morning."

Busted! Mason looked down. "That's not what I was thinking about," he lied.

"And that's not what I asked you," Daisy countered.

_Christ, she was bloody relentless. _"I don't know why you think Georgia's not talking to me," he said. "She's obviously just not feeling well, plus I think she's dead embarrassed she got so pissed last night."

"Uh-huh," Daisy said flatly. Clearly, she didn't believe him.

She looked at her Cartier watch. "Shit! We have only seven minutes," she said, grabbing Mason by his collar and yanking him forward. Of course the elevator was broken so she grabbed Mason's collar and led him toward the muggy, darkened stairwell.

He freed himself from her grasp.

"So how do you think it's gonna go down this time?" Mason asked.

"Oh, no. Nuh-uh. You're not off the hook yet," Daisy said.

Mason tried the dumb routine again. "What do you mean 'off the hook'? It's not like I'm gonna off 'em myself, now is it?"

Even in the half-light, he could see she was giving him an expression that said "give me some credit."

"Well, I've seen you do it before," she said. "But fine. If that's the way you want it, we'll play your little game for now. But mark my words: I'm going to find out what went on between you and Georgia and why it's making you two act like a couple of antisocial loony tunes."

_Thank God_, he thought to himself. _With any luck, she'd get distracted and forget about it. _

Then again, this was Daisy he was talking about. She was a regular fucking pit bull when it came to getting what she wanted. He changed the subject.

"Sixth floor, ladies' unmentionables," he joked, trying to lighten the mood and opening the creaky old door for her. She smirked and squiggled past him toward the narrow doorway.

"Thank you, sir" she said as she rubbed against him on her way out. It seemed not even frustration and curiosity could keep the flirt in Daisy from rearing its head.

"So how much time have we got?" Mason asked.

She looked back down at her watch. "Ugh. Two minutes," she said. "Quick-what's the plan?"

"Well, we could always …" he broke off mid-sentence. "Jesus Christ! Is that a real Cartier?" he asked, grabbing her wrist.

"Oww," she whined. "Yes. Yes, it is." She yanked her wrist free. "But you don't have to grab it so hard."

"How the fuck did you get it?" he asked.

"People like to give me nice things," she said. "Don't worry about it. We have a reap, like, now. Focus."

"All right, but don't think _you're_ off the hook," he shot back at her.

Daisy knocked on door 606. No answer. She knocked harder. Still no answer. They put their ears against the door to try to hear what was going on inside.

A soft moaning coupled with a low, gruff grunting sound was coming from the room, suddenly punctuated by a very loud crash and the sound of glass breaking. "Oh my God, I think he's strangling her and she's fighting back," Daisy said, her eyes wider than usual.

"Then I suppose we'd better get in there and pop their souls before they both die in a great deal of fucking pain," Mason said, pulling out a pin from his pants pocket and proceeding to pick the lock.

They burst through the door to find A. and D. Nye in_ flagrante delicto_, both completely starkers. The woman had to weigh at least 250 lbs., but she was on top of this poor little 100-lb. waif of a man nonetheless. The bedside lamp was shattered on the floor beside the bed.

"What the—?" the man began, but didn't have time to finish his sentence as Mason and Daisy ran over to take their respective souls.

"What the fuck did you just do? Who are you? What the fuck are you doing here?" the woman asked. Still, she didn't stop what she was doing. Mason didn't know what to do: explain himself or wash his eyes out with turpentine.

"Erm …"

Luckily for him, he didn't have to do either. The woman fell back and clutched her left arm in a violent, pained spasm before she completely fell off the bed, landing on the glass and an open electrical circuit that had been created when the lamp broke. As she fell, a very loud cracking noise reverbrated through the room. The man's eyes opened wide and his body jerked reflexively. Then he stopped moving altogether.

"What the hell?" The man said from behind them, brushing past them to look down at his newly deceased body. He tried to touch it, but his hand passed right through his body like it was running through air. Herecoiled as though he'd been bitten by a snake. "OK. Who are you people? What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

"You're dead and so is she," Daisy said nonchalantly. "It appears she may have had a heart attack and possibly electrocuted herself. I think she broke your neck when she fell."

"Oh, and it's nice to meet you. I'm Daisy. Daisy Adair. This is Mason." She gestured toward Mason, who was still trying to avert his eyes.

"You still didn't tell me why you're here," the woman said, confused. "What are you? Angels or something?"

"Ha! Not bloody likely," Mason said.

"Oh, shit!" she cried, her face falling. "You're fucking devils?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Daisy interrupted, then reconsidered. "OK, well, yeah, we're something like that. But we only came to take your souls. We're neutral. We're what you call grim reapers. But we don't actually take you anywhere. That's up to _them_."

"Them who?" the man asked.

"We dunno," Mason said.

"Grim reapers? No way!" the woman said. "Seriously?" Mason nodded.

The woman sighed. "So will you at leat tell me where we're going? Up or down?"

"Er, we dunno," Mason said, again.

"Well, how long will it take before someone finds our bodies?" she asked.

"Yeah ...I'm afraid we dunno that, either," Mason said.

"Well, what the fuck do you know?" the man asked angrily.

"Well, sir, I know that you're dead, and I also know you're really quite unnecessarily hostile," Mason said, insulted. Just then the familiar swirl of lights began forming by the grimy glass door that led out onto the balcony.

"Ooh, look. That's them," Daisy said, pointing.

"Oh, wow," the woman said, her jaw dropping."White lights! That's gotta be good, right?"

"Sure," Daisy answered. The woman gave her a puzzled look. "Look, they don't really give us anything more than your name, address and estimated time of death," Daisy explained."The rest is beyond our scope. I'm sorry."

"Oh," the woman said, her face falling a bit.

"Well, fine. Whatever. Let's just get this show on the road. What did you say we do now?" the man asked, seemingly put out by the fact that they were still standing around.

"Just go into the light," Mason said.

"Aw, c'mon, you've gotta be joking!" the man replied.

"Nope, it's no joke," Mason answered, gesturing toward the lights, clearly impatient. "Now, go on, you. That's right. Scoot!"

At that, D. and A. Nye left this world as just they came in, naked as the days they were born. They clasped hands, looked at each other and jumped into the light, which swirled and dissipated into the stale air.

No sooner than the lights had disappeared did Daisy start laughing. "Oh, my God! Talk about Jack Sprat!" she said.

"Who?" Mason asked.

"You know, Jack Sprat. The children's nursery rhyme," she said. He looked at her blankly. "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean?" she began. "And so, between the two of them, they licked the platter clean?"

Mason cracked up. "Fuckin' A!" he laughed.

Finally, he sighed and looked around the room at the two bodies. "All right, then. I guess we better get going."

"Not so fast," Daisy said, grabbing his arm. "Now ...where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?" She lowered her eyes and batted her lashes, looking up at him.

"Oh, right," Mason said. "I believe we were discussing where you got that watch." He looked at Daisy pointedly.

She considered it for a moment. "All right. Fair enough," she said. "But mark my words: I will find out what's going on."

She turned on her heel and breezed past him in a cloud of soap and expensive perfume, touching him lightly as she passed. Normally, he'd have broken out in goosebumps and been compelled to make some sort of sexual overture. This time, though, he was strangely disinterested.

_Huh,_ he thought to himself.

He turned to go. Daisy looked at him.

_Hmm, _she thought bitterly_. Denied_.

She'd had Mason wrapped around her little finger since the day they met. She brightened. _He can't keep me at bay for long, _she thought_. No man can._

She gave him a sexy sideways glance. She was pissed to notice that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't glancing back.


	11. Lying and Tigers and Stares, Oh My!

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own "Dead Like Me" or any of its characters, which are the property of MGM and (formerly) Showtime. This chapter reverts back to George's POV. As always, please feel free to R&R!

**Chapter 11: Lying and Tigers and Stares, Oh My!**

When Mason and Daisy got back to the house, something was clearly going on between them. She couldn't keep her hands off him—she was tickling him, goosing him, nudging him, and generally just pawing at him.

_God. Get a fucking room. Get a whole fucking house. Just get out of my sight,_ I thought.

I was sitting on the couch pretending to watch _The Wizard of Oz_, but I couldn't help it. I was much more interested in what was going on in the kitchen than I was in the Wicked Witch of the West.

They were talking in hushed tones, the two of them, but I could still make out most of what they were saying.

"Dammit, Daisy, I told you to stop asking that," Mason kept saying. "Like I bloody said already—it's not gonna happen!"

Well, at least he didn't seem to be responding positively to Daisy's Manticore the man-eating tiger impersonation.

_Then again, I didn't know _what _he was talking about. Exactly _what _wasn't going to happen?_ I wondered. _For all I knew, Daisy had found out everything about last night, and Mason was promising he'd never make the mistake of drunkenly kissing me again, and pledging allegiance to the United States of Adair._

I wondered if she knew he told me I was beautiful.

_Oh, fuck it, _I thought. _I'm sure he's told her the same thing hundreds of times._

They came into the living room, and Daisy glanced at the television.

"Blecch. Judy Garland," Daisy said disdainfully. "Honestly, that woman had zero talent. I don't know how on Earth she got to be so famous, unless it has to do with the massive number of times she took a turn on the casting couch."

"Well, that method didn't seem to work for everyone, now, did it?" Mason said snarkily. _Was that a burn?_ "Besides, our dear Judy didn't toast herself tossing some bloke off under a craft services table and was actually able to keep fucking making movies."

"Mason, that is so not funny!" Daisy yelped, a scowl coming over her face. "Georgia, back me up here. Tell him that's not funny!" she demanded.

I kept staring straight ahead, remote in hand. In a monotone I repeated, "Mason, that's not funny."

"Oh, Jesus, Georgia. Are you still moping around?" Daisy asked, changing the subject. "God, seriously. Snap out of it! You're driving me insane. You're going to give me frown lines."

"Did you hear that, George? How dare you give this poor, eighty-something old lady frown lines," Mason said, winking.

Daisy shot him a dirty look. "Oh, right," she said. "You know, that's pretty rich coming from a sixty-something homeless bum who wears Union Jack undies."

"Oh, piss off," he said, grumpily. "Besides, when have you ever seen my knickers?"

"Mason, everyone has seen your knickers at one time or another," she countered.

He started to argue but realized she had a point. So he simply shrugged his shoulders and looked expectantly at me.

I was fairly sure he was waiting for me to say something, but I wasn't in the mood and besides, I had no idea what he wanted me to say. Instead, I lobbed the remote at Daisy. "Here," I said. "You don't like Judy Garland; don't watch Judy Garland. I'm going upstairs."

"Jesus, Georgia, you almost hit me in the head!" she said.

"Sorry," I said, in the same flat voice as before. "But even if I had, you'd heal fast."

"That's really not my point!" she shouted after me as I ascended the stairs. When I got to my room, I stripped down to my bra and panties and slid under the covers, pulling them up and over my head like I used to when I was a kid and thought I could make the world go away.

It still didn't work, but it made me feel better, nonetheless.

In truth, I wasn't even tired. I only came upstairs to get away from the flirting and the pinching and the pawing and … oh, puke. I didn't want to think about it anymore, but like a shark circling its prey, my mind kept swimming in circles until it finally came back to the same spot.

I estimated I'd been in bed for 20 minutes when someone knocked on the door.

_Shit, _I muttered under my breath. _Maybe if I pretend I'm asleep, whichever one that is will leave me alone._

The door creaked slowly open. _Fuck. Why hadn't I thought to lock it? _I scolded myself. I listened as soft footsteps made their way to the bed. Finally, Mason said in as mall voice, "Georgie? George? Hey. You asleep?"

I started to pretend I was sacked out, but I found myself pulling the covers off my head.

_Shit. Why'd I do that?_

"Not yet," I sighed. "What's up?"

Mason sat down on the side of the bed. He played with a loose thread on the duvet for a long time before he said, "I just wanted you to know I didn't tell Daisy anything."

"Of course not," I answered. "After all, you wouldn't want the love of your life to know your lips strayed last night."

I raised my face to look him straight in the eyes—_Just suck it up and be brave, George, old girl!_—and I saw he was giving me those big, sad, puppy dog eyes again.

"Bloody hell, Georgia. Is that what you really think?" he asked quietly, and for a second he sounded genuinely wounded. Then I remembered all the poking and tickling and hush-hush business that had gone on downstairs, and I snapped out of it.

"Why shouldn't I?" I challenged.

"Oh, I don't know," he said, his voice getting louder. "Maybe because last night I kissed you. Or maybe because you didn't try to stop me. In fact, as I remember, you rather enjoyed it!"

His words were crass, but they still gave me a warm shiver inside my belly and I remembered how good his weight felt on top of me and how right his lips felt against mine …

"I was drunk!" I countered.

"Oh, I noticed!" he shot back. "Believe me, blind and deaf people fucking noticed! But I also know a person's true feelings come out when she's high," he said. "Surely you've heard that, right?"

"Maybe," I said indifferently. "Do your true feelings come out every time you're fucked up?"

"Yes," he said, then began to backtrack a little. "Well, sometimes. Most of the time. Christ, George! You can't honestly expect me to remember every time I've been completely pissed!" he said.

"Well, there goes your theory, then," I said, and started to pull the covers back over my head. Before I could do it he took my hands in his and stopped me.

"It's hardly a theory," he said. And the next thing I knew, he was leaning down and kissing me again, gently at first. I knew I should push him away on principle alone, but for some reason I couldn't move. It was like I was paralyzed ... until I found myself pulling him closer, that is—I suddenly wanted him as close to me as possible—and I instinctively arched my back. I ran my hands through his already-rumpled hair and pressed myself against him.

He muttered something under his breath and began kissing me harder. Hungrily. Passionately. The warm shiver in my belly was back.

_Fuuuuuck!_ I thought_. I really wish I'd locked that door. _


	12. Fall on Me

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own "Dead Like Me" or any of its characters. They are the property of MGM and (formerly) Showtime. Still in George's POV. This is a short one. As always, please feel free to R&R!

**Chapter 12: Fall on Me**

_This is what I get for wishing the world would just fade away,_ I thought. _Oh, it was fading away all right—quicker by the second._

"Mmm." Mason made a deep, throaty sound before pushing back my hair and beginning to kiss my neck. _God, he's good at that_, I thought. _I wonder how many other girls he's practiced on?_ I forced myself to stop thinking about it and fell back against the pillows, bringing him with me. He was kissing the hollow of my throat. I let out a soft growl.

The tingly feeling in my stomach spread from my gut down to my knees and up to my chest. By now, he was almost all the way on top of me. I closed my eyes and began to wriggle underneath him. I couldn't help it. He was driving me crazy.

It was funny; I hadn't responded this way with Trip. _Maybe because it had been my first time?_ I had no idea.

Mason came up, breathless, and looked at me with that same glazed, dreamy expression he'd had last night. He touched my face.

"God, you're gorgeous," he said. "I can't believe I'm here … with you … like this …"

I didn't let him finish. "Less talking, more kissing," I demanded. I grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down into a hard, wet kiss. His full weight was on me now, and my heart was racing so fast I thought it might come out of my chest.

He propped himself up long enough to throw off his jacket. I was tingling all over. He took me by the shoulders and started sliding my bra straps down my arms.

Just then, the door opened.

"It's awfully quiet up here. What are you two do—" Daisy broke off.

_Shit! I really did need to start locking my door. _Mason and I shot up straight, like we'd both been shot, and I pulled the covers up against me. He smoothed his hair and looked at Daisy guiltily. She stood there, wide-eyed and rendered uncharacteristically speechless before she finally said, "I knew it!" She addressed Mason. "I knew that was the big secret! You're doing Georgia."

"God, Daisy! He's not 'doing' me," I said, pissed off that she'd phrased it so reductively and that she'd barged into my room in the first place. _If I'd have been up here alone, she'd never have done that_, I thought.

"She's right. I'm not … we're not … we haven't …" Mason stuttered. "Oh, sod it. It's really none of your fucking business, now is it?"

I'd never heard him speak to Daisy like that before. It took us both aback. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him and said, "Oh, yes, it is my fucking business! This is my house!"

"The house I fucking gave you out of the goodness of my fucking bleeding heart!" he said.

"Technically, you gave it to me," I said, annoyed.

She ignored me. "I've been kind enough to let you sleep on the couch in my house and how do you repay me? You try to molest my roommate!" she yelled.

"Hey, now," he said. "Georgia's right—I did give this house to her, not to you. And no one was fucking molesting anyone!"

Daisy was staring at me now. "He's right, Daisy," I said. I felt myself blushing again.

_Strange—I was just laying underneath Mason in nothing but my flimsy bra and panties and I wasn't the least bit embarrassed, but Daisy standing in the doorway like a disappointed school teacher made me feel ashamed._

"Fine," she said. "That's just great." She turned to go, then turned back around to address us one last time. "If you think this is over, you've got another think coming, Mason. I'm not going to have you in the house if there is any chance I'm going to wake up to you having crawled into my bed!"

"Daisy …" I began, but Mason cut me off.

"Daisy, this really has nothing to do with you," Mason said testily. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd shut the door when you go."

"Ooh!" she screeched, clearly frustrated, before turning on her heels to leave.

As she was walking out, she shut the door. In fact, she shut it so hard I thought it the ceiling might collapse.

I pulled the covers back over my head and let out a deep sigh. _Why does everything have to be so fucking difficult when you're undead?_


	13. Bedtime Stories

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own "Dead Like Me" or any of its characters. They are the property of MGM and (formerly) Showtime. Still in George's POV. As always, please feel free to R&R!

**Chapter 13: Bedtime Stories**

After Daisy left, Mason sat silently on the side of my bed for what seemed like a long time. I was still burrowed under the covers, my heart pounding, both embarrassed that Daisy had found us out and wishing Mason would rip off the covers and pick up where we left off.

_My God. What is wrong with me?_

After what seemed like hours, Mason said, "George?"

I answered him from underneath my cocoon of bedsheets and blankets. "What?"

"Erm … can you lose the covers over your head?" he asked.

I complied, pulling them down so they demurely covered my chest on down.

"All right," he said and cleared his throat. "Anyway. I'm sorry about all that, I really am."

"Why?" I asked. "You have nothing to be sorry for. If anyone needs to apologize, it's fucking Daisy!"

"No, I don't mean about that—although I am sorry about that, too," he said. "_Fucking Daisy_ … No, I mean about coming up here and, well, how did she put it? ... Right. 'Molesting' you."

"Mason, you didn't molest me," I protested. "I told you already; I'm not a virgin. And in case you hadn't noticed, I wasn't exactly trying to get away."

The corners of his lips curled up a bit. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

He leaned down and I raised myself up off the pillows. Our lips met somewhere in the middle, softly, tenderly. The warm tinglies were beginning to stir inside again. When we finally broke apart, Mason looked at me with a mixture of concern and desire.

"Still OK?" he asked.

"Yes!" I emphasized. "How many times do I have to say it?"

He was silent for a while. He looked at me before he spoke, and pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "It's just that …uh, it's just that … all right, it's just that I didn't think you ever thought much of me," he said.

"What? Why'd you think that?" I said.

"I dunno," he said, sheepishly. "Maybe 'cause you love giving me a hard time. And also, y'know, 'cause ever since last night, you've been avoiding me like the black fucking plague."

I could feel myself beginning to blush. I looked up at him nervously. "I know," I said. "And I'm sorry. The thing is, until last night, I guess I didn't think much of you."

"Oh, fuckin' A! Thanks," he said.

"No, no, no! That's not what I meant," I quickly continued. "It's just that I didn't really think about you that way, or at least I didn't think I did ... But then I realized … I don't know. I guess I'm not very good at this girl/guy stuff, huh?"

"Well, you seemed pretty bloody proficient a minute ago," he said, and I felt a full-on blush come over me.

"Mason!" I exclaimed, pretending to be offended although my wide eyes and surprised smile betrayed me.

"Just stating a fact," he said, shrugging and laughing. Then he took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, studying it as if he was in the Sistine Chapel. Finally, he said, "So what's going on between us, then?" he asked softly.

It was my turn to study something. I chose the bedspread. I absentmindedly picked at a loose thread until he put his hand over mine to stop me. I looked up.

"Seriously, Georgia," he said. "What's happening with the two of us?"

"I don't know," I said, honestly. "I know I really like being with you."

"And I really like being with you," he said.

"Yeah ... I can tell," I said, looking pointedly at his crotch, which was still partially saluting me.

"Right," he laughed. "Guess I can't hide that." He nervously ran his fingers through his hair.

I laughed, too. Then I said, "What about you?"

"Pardon?" he asked.

"What about you?" I began. "Did … did _you_ ever think about _me_ that way before last night?"

He sighed and diverted his hands from his hair, running his palms over his jeans. "Yeah, I did," he admitted. "From the very first day I met you."

"Well, why the hell didn't you tell me?" I asked, confused.

"And risk a patented Georgia Lass verbal smackdown?" he asked. "No thanks."

"But you didn't mind wearing your heart on your sleeve when you were all about Daisy," I said, still confused.

He sighed again. "I thought I explained all that last night," he said. "I'm an addict, Georgia. With Daisy, I got off on the routine—I chased her, degraded myself, happily, all on the off chance she'd throw me a bone, or at least a few table scraps. She gets off on the attention, so she's glad to play along. It was like a game. It wasn't real."

"And did she? Throw you a bone, I mean?" I asked.

"Not really," he said. "Well, I mean, we snogged a couple times. Not properly _snogged _snogged, though; nothing like that. She did show me her tits once for five seconds. But that's all. And believe me, I'm not daft enough to think it's because she has any feelings at all for me; I realize I'm a sort of ... insurance policy for Daisy, so she can get the attention she needs 'til someone better comes along. Y'know?"

It made sense. "Yeah, I guess I do," I said. Then a thought occurred to me. "Well, what about me, then?" I asked. "Are you just subbing one addiction for another, hoping I'll throw you a bone—are you hoping to score with me because you couldn't score with Daisy? No bullshit, OK? I need to know, Mason."

"No!" He said quickly. "Y'know, I meant what I said last night, Georgie. You're complicated. You're smart, and you don't take any shit. You may be young, but you're wiser than most people three times your age, present company excluded," he laughed. "And, whether you want to hear it or not, you're fucking beautiful. Jesus! I was fucking interested from the first time we met, when you walked up with the old man. You were so young but so … broken. I recognized that in you. That, and I had never seen anyone so bleedin' gorgeous and fucking pissed off at the same time. You pulled me right in."

I looked at him quizzically. "Really?"

He smiled and nodded, and kissed me chastely on the forehead. "Yeah, well, hindsight," he said. "Well, that and Rube told me he'd cut off my knob if I even thought about touching you."

"What?" I asked. "Are you serious?"

"That was almost verbatim," he laughed.

He got up off the bed.

"Listen," he said. "I'm gonna let you chew on this for a while. I don't want you to anything you might regret later, which would make _me_ regret it, because I don't want to regret anything with you. So wrap back up in your little ... blankie set, there ...and hibernate for a while. Think about what you _really_ want. If you decide it's me, I'll still be here, right underneath you. Well, so to speak," he winked."I'm not going anywhere unless you ask me to."

He walked to the door. "Georgia?" he said, turning around.

"Yeah?"

"You think I'm completely full of shit, don't you?" he asked.

I laughed softly. "No, Mason, actually I don't," I said. "In fact, for the first time since I've known you, I actually believe you are completely shit-free."

He laughed and closed the door behind him.

I rolled over and pulled the covers back over my head. I wanted him, it was true. But what would people say? Would Rube ever approve? I didn't want to risk incurring his wrath.

Daisy already had made it clear what she thought. And Roxy … well, I knew how Roxy would react. She might kick Mason's ass.

So many thoughts swirled around in my head, jockeying for position. But the memory of Mason's lips on mine; his weight on me; the low, throaty sounds he made when we were kissing—those memories led the race until I finally, fitfully, drifted off to sleep.

Even when I slept I dreamed about it. All things considered, I was beginning to think I didn't give a damn what people had to say. And why should I? I had spent my whole life learning how not to give a damn and I'd become good at it.

_Besides, they made me what I am; I didn't ask for it. So I can do anything I damn well please_, I decided.

When I awoke, I rolled to my side and looked at myself in the mirror. I didn't look any different. When I peered at myself, I saw the same old ordinary girl looking back at me. I was a little flushed, sure, and my chin looked like it had a little case of razor burn coming on. Other than that, nothing.

But what I felt—as far as that went—now, that was an entirely different story. I definitely felt something. For the first time in my life, unlife, whatever, I felt beautiful. I felt desirable.

And I felt desirous.


	14. Lying in Wait

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters or _Dead Like Me_; they're the property of MGM and Showtime. Lyrics are the property of Fleetwood Mac, from the song "Little Lies" from _Tango in the Night_ (Warner Bros., 1987).**

_**Note:** This chapter is in an omniscient narrator's POV._

**Ch. 14: Lying in Wait**

She was there when he finally came back downstairs.

He'd braced himself for a confrontation, but so far she wasn't fighting. Instead, she handed him a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks and sank back into her chair. She was drinking one, too.

For a long while, they sat in silence, and pretended to listen to the radio; him thinking mostly about George sleeping upstairs and the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, while she planned in her head what she was going to say.

To Daisy's own surprise, the words came out before she had completely thought them all through. It was true she was no stranger to tossing information out about as casually as two boys tossing about a basketball in a quick pick-up game after school, but this wasn't some blow-job anecdote. She'd been mapping this out carefully.

"So you're in love with Georgia," she said finally, looking him straight in the eye and cocking her head to one side, that slight, provocative smirk on her face.

He was half-afraid to answer. He didn't want to be shouted at, for one thing, and for another, he got the vague impression his answer might hurt her. He didn't want that to happen either.

He shrugged and said, "I dunno. Maybe."

Then he said, "Yes."

She didn't break eye contact, even as he valiantly tried to look anywhere but at her, and when he finally found the courage to meet her eyes, she took a dainty sip of her whiskey and made a throaty sound. "Mmm."

"And how does she feel about you?" she said, as if pondering the information.

She was still bloody looking at him, he noticed. He wished she'd stop. He fidgeted with a button, ran a hand through his hair, took a long, slow drink and shifted in his seat.

"I don't know," he answered honestly.

She made the same throaty sound and sighed, sitting down her whiskey glass on the table beside her.

"Well, you two looked pretty—shall we say—_chummy _upstairs just now," she countered.

His face began to flush at the memory of George coming up off the pillows to kiss him. He hadn't expected her to do that. God, she had been so sweet, he thought. His flesh got warmer at the thought.

Daisy must've known what he was thinking. "Mmm hmm," she said, her voice going up a little on the "hmm."

"All right, Daisy, I'll bite," Mason said. "What are you _mmm hmm_ing about?"

She calmly leaned over and picked up her glass, taking another dainty sip of her whiskey. "Nothing," she said innocently, her big blue eyes becoming even bigger and bluer, if that was possible. "I was just thinking that it's a shame, that's all."

He eyed her warily. "What's a shame?" he asked.

"It's a shame that you never gave me a chance to sample the goods," she said, and shot him another sexy smirk before lowering her gaze to take a long, smooth sip of her drink, looking back up at him through lowered lashes.

Jesus. _Did she look ashamed?_ he wondered. For a moment, he felt like an absolute fucking heel, until he remembered all the rejections, the insults, the humiliation.

"Oh, come on!" he said, genuinely pissed off. "Don't give me that line, love! I would've done anything for you and you knew it. And you made bloody well sure everyone else knew it, too!"

She eyed him for a minute. "_Would_ have," she said. "_Knew_ it. Interesting use of the past tense, there, Mason."

_Why didn't anyone ever love me?_

Past tense. Suddenly, Daisy's own last words echoed through his head—loud, unwanted visitors tromping through his gray matter and snapping synapses like bulls in a china shop. He found himself feeling terrible, and terribly uncomfortable. His recent streak of good judgment was teetering on the brink.

Shit. He was the bloody Road Runner and she was Wile E. Coyote, standing up above him with a thousand-pound anvil. He knew he definitely didn't want her to drop it.

"Well, you know, I …" he stammered.

"I know what?" she challenged.

"Dammit, Daisy! You _know_ if you'd have given me even _half_ a bleeding _chance_, I would have been yours! You _know_ you had me so blind to everyone else I would never even have noticed Georgia," he half-fibbed.

"Right," she said. "Still in the past tense."

He shouldn't tell her half-truths, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Her last words kept flashing through his head like lightning and she looked so damn vulnerable. He drained his whiskey and got up off the couch to go and get a refill. He was surprised when he found her on his heels. He turned and there she was—six inches from his face, smirking that smirk again.

"So what can I do to put it back in the present?" she whispered in his ear. She didn't want to do it, but she couldn't stop herself. "I don't like the past tense."

"Daisy, look," he began. She cut him off. She knew what he was going to say and she wasn't going to hear it. She tried another tack.

Lowering her eyes, she considered it only a split-second before she said it. She knew they were lies but she still couldn't keep the words from tumbling out: "Dammit, Mason, I love you!"

A single tear rolled down her cheek. She broke eye contact for the first time and looked up at the ceiling. "I think I'm in love with you," she said again, quieter this time.

_Shit!_ He hadn't seen that one coming. He didn't know what to do. He yanked a piece of tissue from the box on the kitchen counter and handed it to her, gently. "Don't cry," he pleaded. "Please don't cry."

He wrapped his arms around her and patted her head. She stood there for a moment and let him do it, contemplating her next move. Finally, she gave up and yelped, "Don't pet me like a fucking puppy!" She turned on her heel and left the room. He heard her bedroom door slam behind her.

He poured himself a stiff drink, walked back into the living room and sank back onto his bed. He vaguely noticed that Fleetwood Mac was playing on the radio as he tried to process what had just happened—he knew a guy who knew a guy who'd tried to reap Stevie Nicks back in the seventies. Turns out she was a really fucking brilliant chess player, even when she was OD'ing on coke.

_If I could turn the page  
In time, then, I'd rearrange just a day or two  
(Close my, close my, close my eyes)  
But I couldn't find a way  
So I'll settle for one day to believe in you  
(Tell me, tell me, tell me lies)  
Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies  
(Tell me lies, tell me, tell me lies)  
Oh, no, no you can't disguise  
(You can't disguise, no you can't disguise)…_

He gulped down the Jack Daniel's and absentmindedly played with the glass in his hand. He felt bad about Daisy, he really did. But his mind was somewhere else: namely, in the upstairs bedroom, fast asleep.

In the downstairs bedroom, Daisy sat in front of her vanity and smeared cold cream on her face, looking at her reflection and wondering if he was thinking about her.

It wasn't that she didn't like Georgia; in her own way, she loved her. She was like a little sister to her. She needed her help and guidance.

But Daisy didn't like to lose, especially where a man was concerned. Even if it _was_ Mason.

_Especially if it was Mason_, she thought. She shuddered a little and pushed that thought out of her mind almost as quickly as it had come. _Besides_, she reminded herself, _it's already started. There's no turning back now. _

She brushed her hair, and as she did, she tried to brush away lingering feelings of doubt and remorse. By the time she'd turned off the light, she'd already started thinking about her next move.


	15. Friend or Faux?

**This chapter returns to (mainly) George's POV. Again, I don't own _Dead Like Me_ or anything associated with it.  
**

**Ch. 15: Friend or Faux?**

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

_Was that the school bus? Shit, I'm going to be late for school!_ I thought, panicked, before my hand instinctively reached out to smack the shit out of the snooze button. As soon as I shut the noise off, I sat up in bed and tried to rub the sleep out of my eyes. Every morning it was the same story: for a full five seconds I forget I got snuffed out by a flaming space commode, and I think I'm still alive.

Why I was panicked about missing a bus, I have no idea. I wasn't in high school when I died, and even when I was in high school, I certainly never gave a shit about making it to class.

On the other hand, I had to give a shit about making it to work on time.

I stretched my arms out wide. _Oh, well. Another day, another dollar, _I thought._ Almost literally. Happy Time is hardly the cash cow one might think it is ._

Sometimes I crack myself up.

As I pulled the covers back, I caught a whiff of leather, laundry detergent, musk and whiskey. Mason.

_I'll still be here, right underneath you_, I remembered he'd said. Oh, Mason. If only you knew the places my mind went when you said that. Or the places my mind was still going, for that matter …

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and, to my surprise, the girl staring back at me—the one who'd always reminded me of a crackheaded trick baby—was smiling. She almost looked radiant.

I floated into the bathroom and turned on the shower. _I probably should turn the knob all the way up to cold_, I thought, still laughing. _Despite all evidence to the contrary, folks, Georgia Lass is not a masochist._

Besides, I kind of liked the warm feeling in the pit of my tummy when I thought about all the things Mason said and the way his lips felt against mine. They weren't fast and clumsy like Trip's. _Ick._ _Fish kisses,_ I thought.

No, Mason's kisses were different. They were soft, gentle. He liked to take his time. And to my surprise, I liked letting him.

_I'll still be here, right underneath you_. Despite the warmth of the water pounding against my skin, I shivered a little. I realized I was staring off into space.

_Fuck! Snap out of it George!_ I thought. One thing's for sure: whatever the hell is going on between me and Mason is not conducive to keeping me focused. _Speaking of which … what exactly is going on between me and Mason? _Luckily—or is that unluckily?—I snapped out of my reverie as soon as I heard the bathroom door creak open.

_Shit … _

"Georgia?" a voice called out over the sound of the running water. "Do you mind if I come in?"

Shit. Daisy.

"Well, technically, you're already in, aren't you?" I said. _Nothing I can do about it now, anyway._

"May I talk to you?"

"Again, Daisy, technically, you're already talking to me," I said. _God, she could be frustrating._

I heard her close the lid of the toilet—_grr … the fucking toilet_—and I heard her sit down.

"Georgia," Daisy began with a deep breath, "Now you know I'm not a nosy person …"

I snorted and poked my soapy head out of the plastic curtain. "Riiiight," I said, laughing. Then I noticed her face was still. "Daisy … you're kidding, right?"

"No!" she said, sounding surprised by the assumption. _Or at least faux surprised,_ I thought. _Secretly,_ _I've always suspected Daisy is good at faux everything._

"I'm serious, Georgia," she harrumphed. "I'm not trying to overstep my boundaries, but I feel I need to talk to you, woman to woman. Roommate to roommate. _Friend to friend_."

Now it was my turn to act surprised. Hell, I did have to admit she'd piqued my curiosity. "Okay …"

She sighed before starting up again. "Okay, Georgia. Like I said—I'm not a nosy person," she said, "but I truly feel I'd be doing you a great disservice if I didn't tell you something." _Jesus, how melo-fucking-dramatic can one person get?_

"Okay. What?" I said.

"Well … this isn't easy," she said.

"Sure it is," I snapped, getting more frustrated by the second. "Just open your mouth and fucking say it."

"Okay," she said. "You're right." She took a deep breath. "Listen … I know you and Mason have something going on. I know that you like him."

_All right, you have my attention. _"Go on."

She sighed. "Well … oh, God, this is so hard!" she whined, and her voice sounded like that of a spoiled little brat who didn't want to tell Mommy she'd spilled the cherry Kool Aid all over the white carpet because it might mean she wouldn't get that pretty pony for her birthday.

I turned off the water and grabbed my towel off the bar above my head. "Daisy!" I said.

"Okay!" she answered. "Okay. Like I said, I know you like Mason and …oh, I'm just going to say it. Georgia, last night after I found Mason in your room, he came on to me."

_What?_ I stepped out of the shower, hair dripping wet, with the towel wrapped around me like a blanket. I looked at her incredulously.

She, of course, looked stunning. I hadn't even heard her get up, but she'd obviously already showered. Her blonde hair was glistening and pinned back with some kind of sparkly brooch-type thing. She was wearing a very low-cut, very flowy silk top, and black pants with matching black heels. Her fucking makeup was flawless.

I, on the other hand, was still sporting wet hair and a towel. And, as I noticed in the foggy mirror, I had a spot of oh-so-attractive beard burn on my chin.

_Suck it up, Georgia. _"Go on."

"All right," she said. "Well, after I found him up here, he came downstairs, yada yada, you know." I kept looking at her. She fidgeted with a piece of jewelry. "Uh, well, soon he fixed himself a drink and we started talking. Anyway, I told him how great I thought it was that you two were getting together."

"Whatever," I said.

She went on. "Okay. So after a while, he made himself another drink and then another. Actually, I lost count," she said. "Anyway, that's not the point, really. Soon we were talking about being in love in general. That's when he made a pass at me."

"How?" I asked.

"How?" she repeated.

"Yeah. How did he make a pass at you?"

"Well," she began. She was really fidgeting now. "He, um … he started talking about him and me—about us. Of course, I told him there isn't any us," she added hastily, "but he was drunk, Georgia. You know how he is. He wouldn't listen. He said he'd be mine if I'd give him half a chance. Then he leaned in and tried to kiss me." She averted her eyes.

"He tried to kiss you," I repeated. I knew I sounded like a goddamn parrot but the words came out before I could stop them.

"I didn't let him, of course!" she said emphatically. "I got up to go to bed and I told him he'd better do the same." She looked down. "That's when he said the thing."

"Said what thing?"

She let out a long, breathy sigh. "He said … he said …"

"Said what?" I repeated, louder and more pissed-sounding than I would prefer. "Spit it out, Daisy. You sound like a fucking parrot."

"He said he loves me,'" she said, still not meeting my eyes.

I stood dripping in the middle of the room for a moment before I turned to the mirror. "Huh," I said, trying to sound nonchalant. I was 99.9 percent sure I didn't pull it off.

"I didn't say it back, Georgia," she said quickly. "You've got to believe me! You know I value our friendship too much! Besides, I don't feel that way about him. I thought I'd made that very clear."

"Sure," I said, shrugging my shoulders and keeping my eyes focused on the mirror. Robotically, I reached for the brush and began dragging it through my wet hair.

_Keep it together …_

"Georgia, I'm really sorry," she said, standing up. "Anyway, I just thought I should tell you." She put her hand on my shoulder in a gesture—_or was it a faux gesture?_—of sympathy and looked at me with those big, wide fucking eyes.

I kept my fucking eyes on the image in the mirror.

"Well, I'd better let you get ready," she said, almost too hastily. "I'll see you downstairs." She shut the door as she left.

Still brushing my hair, I kept my eyes focused on the girl in the mirror. I stared at her for what seemed like hours. That's when I noticed the damnedest thing … something I'd never, ever seen before.

The girl in the mirror was crying.


	16. TKO

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters or _Dead Like Me_; they're the property of MGM and Showtime.

Author's note: Thanks to all who have continued to read and comment. You guys have inspired me to try and pick this up again. Hopefully I'll finish it this time … wish me luck!

This is in George's POV.

**Chapter 16: TKO**

Mason had already left by the time I made it downstairs, and I was equally relieved and disappointed by the fact. I'd had to put on makeup, but I'd managed to make myself look a little less puffy and red. _Yet no less pathetic_, I thought bitterly. Still, it was no small feat I'd managed to pull myself together considering I felt like I'd just been punched in the face—hard—by a prizefighter.

I'd put on my fitted black suit jacket and skirt to try to make myself look work-ready. I'd even shoved my feet into a pair of high heels and slapped on the pearl necklace my mother had given me for high school graduation, which I'd liberated from my old jewelry box during my first covert visit home post-toilet seat. Reggie had almost caught me that day, and I'd had to hide in my old closet for an hour until she finally fell asleep on my bed.

I was hiding today, too. Hopefully, the outfit and makeup would make me look so much better on the outside that no one would notice I was falling apart on the inside. Hell, I'd even brushed my hair. _I mean, I'm wearing lip gloss, for fuck's sake!_

But on the inside—on the inside was a different story. My stomach was in knots, I had a perma-lump in my throat, and my head was killing me.

I _had _been punched in the face by a prizefighter, and I heard the announcer call it in my head.

_Ladies and gentleman … the winner by a knockout: Daisy! Daisy Adair!_

Speaking of the knockout, she was pacing. "Georgia, are you ready? We're going to be late," she whined.

"Fine. Let's go. Where's your boyfriend?" I asked.

She didn't protest or even pretend to not know who I was talking about.

"I don't know, " she said. "He wasn't here when I got up. Now can we please go?"

"Yeah, whatever," I said. I was seriously pissed at Daisy but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a wiseassed retort. It seemed to catch her off guard.

"You look … really pretty today," she said, and though her voice sounded strangely hopeful and expectant, I didn't respond. I dangled the keys to the Mustang and motioned for her to follow, which she did.

_It's not really her fault_, I thought. _She is who she is. She's Daisy. She's a winner. She's a heavyweight and I'm not even in the same weight class. _Besides, Mason had never kept his feelings about her secret before; why should he start now? Sure, he'd usually shrouded them in jokes, but he knew he wasn't fooling anyone.

And who knows? Maybe he really did want to fuck me. But it was Daisy, not me, he wanted to love, and when push came to shove I simply couldn't compete.

_God, shake it off, Georgia! You're acting like a lovesick idiot. It's nothing. It's over. It's done. Move on with it._

We rode to Der Waffle Haus in silence. Daisy didn't try to engage me in conversation or keep up her usual steady stream of chatter. After what seemed like the longest ride ever, I finally parked the car and we walked inside. I saw Mason sitting across the booth from Rube, fiddling with his napkin. I didn't make eye contact.

"Daisy. Peanut." Rube said. "So happy you ladies could join us." He peeled off a Post-It and stuck it on the table in front of Daisy as she sat down on Mason's side of the booth. I slid in beside Rube but he didn't hand me anything.

"Sorry," I mumbled. I could tell Mason was looking at me but I didn't dare look up. I could hear him picking and tearing at that damn napkin. Rube was finishing his bear claw. Apparently Roxy had already split.

"Where's mine?" I asked, indicating Daisy's Post-It.

"You don't get one," Rube said.

"What? Why?" I asked. "Daisy was late, too, and she still got one!"

_God, I sound like a petulant child. Snap out of it, Georgia!_

"Calm down, Peanut," Rube said, swallowing his last piece of bear claw. "They use just the right amount of icing here," he said. "Icing is the key to the entirety of the bear claw experience. You use too much, and it ends up being so sickly sweet you can't eat it. Use too little and it loses the whole essence of the claw."

"That's nice, Goldilocks," I snapped, "but can we focus here? Why am I being singled out for punishment? Why can't I have my Post-It?"

"I said calm down, Georgia," Rube said. "No one said anything about punishment." He furrowed his brow, but he didn't seem pissed. "Are you all right?" I could tell he was genuinely concerned. Normally I found these lines of questioning annoying, but today it seemed almost sweet. I felt a tear start to well up. I dared it to even try falling.

"I'm fine," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "I'm just wondering why I can't have what Mason and Daisy have."

As soon as the words were out of my mouth I felt Mason tense, and I realized I'd chosen the wrong phrasing.

"I mean a Post-It," I stammered.

_Very cool, Georgia. Why don't you just throw yourself at his feet and beg for the damn thing? Jesus._

"Peanut, you are on special assignment today," Rube said. "Mason has your Post-It."

"What? Why?" I spat out.

"There's a very delicate reap tonight and I need you two to work together," he said. "Mason has all the details." He began sliding over, indicating that he wanted out of the booth. I moved out of Rube's way as he slid out and stood up.

"You. Don't fuck it up," he chided, pointing his finger at Mason. Strangely enough, Mason didn't reply in his normal wounded fashion. He was looking down now, seeming nervous, picking at the last remnants of his napkin.

"I have an appointment today and I'll be out of pocket," Rube said. "I'm counting on you. And Georgia?"

"Yeah?" I asked.

"You look beautiful today," Rube said. He didn't call me Peanut. Mason was still averting his eyes but I felt his body tense again and he sat up straighter in his seat.

_I sure as hell felt his body tense last night_, I thought, and I shivered a little bit at the memory of it, of his lips on my neck, headed down toward my ... _No. No fucking way. I'm not going to do this to myself! _I thought, and I tried to push the thought out of my mind.

Tried was the operative word.

Just then Rube laid his money for the check on the table, and thankfully it snapped me out of my reverie.

"Peanut?" Rube said.

"Yeah," I said and looked up at him.

"Knock 'em dead."


	17. Politics

**Disclaimer:** I still don't own _Dead Like Me_ or any of its characters, although sometimes I wish I did.

**Chapter 17: Politics**

Mason caught up with me as Daisy and I were walking out to the car.

"Georgia, can I talk to you?" he said.

I fought my initial urge to make a jokey, sarcastic comment correcting his grammar. "Why?" I asked, still walking.

"Well, for starters, I have all the information about the reap and you don't," he began, close on my heels. When I didn't stop, he reached out for my arm. "For Christ's sake, can you just hold up a bleeding minute?"

I turned to face him and took the Post-It from his outstretched hand. "R. McCullough, Renaissance Hotel Ballroom, 8:22 p.m." I read. "OK. What's the big deal?"

"This bloke is a state senator," Mason said. "There's some type of rally tonight, security's gonna be tight, and according to Rube it's not going to be so easy for us to get to him."

I shrugged. "Yeah, OK," I said flatly. "Listen, I've gotta go to work."

"Dammit, Georgia, I need to fucking talk to you," he said. Daisy sighed and looked at her ridiculously expensive Cartier watch.

"Mason, you can catch up with her later at the house," she said. "Come on, Georgia, let's go."

"No," he said, and I hadn't heard him speak that emphatically before. He didn't look at her. His eyes stayed focused on me and he repeated, "I need to talk to you. Now. _In private_."

"You heard her," Daisy said, annoyed. "She has to go to work."

"I'm not talking to you, Daisy," he said pointedly, and his serious tone caught me off guard. "Georgia? _Please_."

I didn't want to hear his bullshit, but I shrugged my shoulders. "Fine," I said. I let him lead me away from the sidewalk traffic to a quiet corner around the side of the building.

We were both silent for a minute. He was looking at me. I was looking at anything—everything-else. After a while he put his hands on my shoulders, bracing me gently but firmly, and it forced me to stop looking away.

"She said something to you," he said.

I looked at him blankly.

"God dammit, she said something to you," he repeated.

I started to get angry. "Of course she did!" I said. "Did you really think she wouldn't?"

"What did she tell you?" he asked.

"What do you think she told me?" I shot back.

"I don't know, but I can bloody guess," he said. He rubbed his temples. "Why don't you humor me and tell me?"

"Why should I? You were there," I said, getting angrier.

"I'm not sure I was," he said. "At least not for what I'm guessing are her twisted version of events, based on the way you're behaving and the fact you won't so much as look at me."

"The way _I'm_ behaving?" I said. "Listen, Mason. Three days ago we were friends. Three days ago we were fine. Then two days ago you fucked it up. Two days ago you kissed me. Two days ago you told me I'm fucking beautiful! Then last night you fucking shared things with me! Last night you made me realize I feel something for you, and then as soon as my back was turned, you went running back to her and you told her you love her! How the fuck is that supposed to make me feel?"

He shook his head. "No."

"What do you mean, no?" I said loudly.

"I mean _no_," he stated, matter-of-factly. "I mean that's not the way it happened. Dammit! I fucking _knew_ as soon as she came to me last night she was going to try to fuck this up for us."

"As soon as she _came_ to you? Fuck this up for _us_?" I shook my head. "What 'us' are you talking about? Why don't you just leave me alone?"

"You're not listening to me," he said. His voice was loud. "She's a liar! She's a bloody fucking liar. She only wants what she can't have, especially now that you have it."

"What are you talking about?" I said. I was shaking. I was angry and I was hurt. I tried to steady myself but I couldn't. I hated the way I felt, the way he was making me feel.

"I never told her I love her!" he said. "_She_ said that to _me_! Last night when I came downstairs, she came on to me. She fed me a sob story. She tried to make me feel sorry for her—no, she _did _make me feel sorry for her—until I realized what she was doing. She's trying to ruin everything."

"Jesus Christ, Georgia, she's lying to you," he shouted.

I looked at him. I looked in his eyes. They were wide and intense, like he was trying to peer into my brain and see what was inside.

I couldn't handle it. I looked away. I didn't know what to think. I started shaking again.

He grabbed my shoulders and steadied me, making me look at him.

"You're a smart girl," he said. "You have to know I'm telling you the bleeding truth. You have to know she only does this shit because she wants what you have!"

"What I have?" I asked. "And what is it that I have?"

I was so tired of fighting with him._ This is why I shouldn't bother with this crap. I should have never let it happen. It had all turned so wrong so fast. _

He looked at me for a good, long while with those serious, intense eyes, his hands on my shoulders, until finally, he let go.

"You have me."


	18. I Wouldn't Call it a Bipartisan Debate

**Disclaimer: I still don't own Dead Like Me or its characters, but that doesn't mean I can't pretend I do … Kidding, Bryan Fuller. Kidding. **

**Author's Note: **Still George's POV. No smut yet, but I do have a few questions for you more seasoned vets and fanfic writers out there—am I able I change only a few chapters' ratings to M, or do I have to change the entire fic's rating to M? And if I do, is that gonna turn a lot of people off? 'Cause I can tone it down. True, I don't want to, but I also don't see any DLM fics rated M … ? Not to mention a lot of you guys stuck with me for 7 years while I finally finished this sucker, and I don't want to alienate you right at the end. I want you to be "Finally, she gave it an ending! Ahh, I can stop hating this chick now!" And I also hope you like it, of course. About 5 more chapters (most of which are done) and it's a wrap!

**Chapter 18: I Wouldn't Call it a Bipartisan Debate **

I'd been thinking about my conversation with Mason all morning and though I didn't know it yet, I'd continue to do so well into the evening. Daisy had been her usual babbling self on the way home, talking about blowing so-and-so and, oh, that time she also blew blah blah blah …

_This whole conversation blows._

I considered telling her to shut the hell up, but instead I opted to tune her out. I was too busy trying to keep the car in the correct lane, away from oncoming traffic while I tried to process everything Mason had said to me outside Der Waffle Haus. Especially the last part.

I've never seen him that pissed at anyone, especially not a girl he likes. Or liked. Or possibly liked. Or had liked enough for ten minutes to make out with her in her room.

_But hadn't history proven Mason would make out with just about any girl, anywhere? I mean, hell, for him, the room part of the deal was probably just a bonus._

Daisy told me once she spent an afternoon with Mason at some hipster-dumbass record store downtown while he tried to pick up girls. She went in as his wingman, but ended up spending a couple hours watching him get slapped repeatedly by every woman he approached instead. In the end he got lucky with some pseudo-goth chick who really wanted to believe she was boning a real grim reaper—and more than that, probably, wanted a story to tell her pals at Hot Topic—so she did him in the store copy room. It was all very _Empire Records_ of her.

Daisy had said when she saw him later that day he looked so cocky he'd been almost attractive to her. _Almost_, she'd stressed. In hindsight, I realized that was probably just Daisy code for "I was jealous and/or lonely and/or thought he looked kind good at the time, so I let him get to third with me in a random alleyway. But I'm not admitting it to you, Georgia, because you'll just make it sound sleazy and gross. God!"

_I've said it before and I'll say it again: Fucking Daisy._

The more I thought about all her stories, her laughter at the misfortune of others, what seemed to be by now her all-consuming desire to be number one in Mason's heart without ever having to give too much of herself in return—"she showed me her tits once for five seconds," he'd laughed—the more I thought Mason might be telling me the truth. I mean, he was the kind of guy who wore his heart on his sleeve—even if, occasionally, "sleeve" meant "pants." He had no real reason to mess with my head, and he'd never lied to me, even when he probably should have.

And Daisy—well, Daisy had lied to all of us plenty of times. She was, unsurprisingly, very good at it. I doubted she'd have any problem lying to my face if she thought it would keep her faithful puppy around.

_"You're a smart girl!" Mason had said, clearly frustrated. "Why can't you see what she's doing?"_

The sheer effort he'd exerted in pleading his case kept replaying on a loop in my head. It wasn't his usual style. I'd seen him shrug just about everything else off, but this time he wanted me hear him out so badly he wouldn't let it go, and he'd looked me straight in the eye when he spoke to me. For the first time since everything got so fucked up, I realized I honestly didn't think he was lying. I'd seen him try to fib his way out of situations a couple times before, and he really sucked at it.

He got too nervous, stuttered over his words, looked guilty, and he certainly couldn't make eye contact with anyone. I wondered if he played poker, because I bet he'd be really terrible at it. He'd have too many tells.

_No, _I realized,_ I don't think he's been lying to me, after all, although in hindsight he sure as hell didn't give me much credit._

It should have been obvious to him that my fear of certain old habits resurfacing (in this case, his past—or semi-past,whatever—with Daisy), was about me not wanting to get hurt again. It didn't mean I couldn't or wouldn't or didn't care about him. He knows I've seen him do some fucked-up things—break into murder victims' apartments with the victims' corpses still inside, or take money from the pockets of the dead ("leave the plastic, cash is king," he'd advised)—and he _had_ to remember the time he delivered a giant Ziploc bag of multicolored, multipurpose pills to my apartment when I'd called him at 3 a.m., panicking when that bipolar kid was cycling manic and refused to sleep. It only took him about 10 minutes to get his stash together and get to my place in the middle of the night, for Christ's sake. How could I not see some sketch potential there?

He also should know it hadn't lessened my opinion of him at all.

It dawned on me that I was so humiliated, so hurt and so pissed after everything happened that maybe I hadn't been thinking about things rationally. Maybe Daisy had been ready and waiting for me the morning after she found us in bed together, and she knew just what to say to make me run away.

That's probably why she was chattering on and on even more incessantly than usual now. Either she was relieved because she assumed my interest in Mason (and therefore his interest in me) was over because I'd walked away from our argument this morning, or she believed it might _not_ be quite over between us, and she was doing what she'd been trained to do—acting her ass off—to appear unaffected.

I dropped her at the house and went straight to work, but my mind kept going in circles the rest of the day. It was fine, though, because since my promotion, I'd discovered I wasn't expected to do as much work as I'd done before, at least not as consistently. It seemed almost wrong that the higher up you got, the more free time you had at the office. Often, though, I'd found, the perceived perks of success, like more free time, were usually both blessings and curses.

Today, for example, I had so much time I took an early lunch and left the office for some air to try to clear my head. I never could get it out of my thoughts completely, although, ironically that ended up working out when I realized I'd glossed completely over something important Mason had told me in the midst of everything: Tonight we were reaping a state senator and we might not have an easy time of it. "Security is going to be tight," Mason had warned. "Rube said it might even be very hard for us to get in at all."

Shit! What did that mean? I grabbed my cell and began to call my house but stopped because I didn't want to chance talking to Mason until I could _really talk_ to Mason. So I did the next best thing and dialed Rube.

"Hel-LO," he said, in his usual brusque, unique and somewhat old-fashioned way. Rube often clung to the old because he didn't always see the benefit of the new. Take the phone he was talking on now—it was an old-school deal with a round dial that still connected to a landline.

"Rube? It's me," I said. "George."

"I know who you are, Peanut," Rube said."What can I do for you?"

"Well, Mason said earlier we're reaping Richard McCullogh, the senator, tonight," I began.

"McCullogh's not a U.S. Senator," Rube said offhandedly and a bit dismissively, as if his status as a member of the state senate would somehow make my night easier.

"Umm, all right," I said. "So Mason said earlier we're reaping Richard McCullogh, the _state_ senator, tonight," I began again. "He also said you told him we might have a problem getting in to the venue. So how is this gonna happen? Did you get any info that might help us out somehow?"

"I only know what I've heard," Rube replied. "The guy's a first-term state senator. He's a drinker, he's a gambler, he has an affinity for the young ladies even though he's very married, although he's quite handsome and a senator to boot, so the young ladies don't really seem to mind."

"Yeah, well, has anyone asked his wife? I bet _she_ minds," I said. "Disgusting. Do you know if he's a Democrat or Republican?"

"He's a member of the Bull Moose party," Rube said. "How should I know? No, uh, wait … he's a … Democrat," he read aloud from somewhere. "Why does that matter?"

"I don't know," I answered. "I guess it doesn't, really. I think I'd just feel better reaping a Republican."

"Peanut, did you ever even _vote _before you died?" Rube asked.

"Well, no," I said, "but that doesn't mean I haven't developed some very valid opinions."

He sighed. "Then consider him a Republican. Or a Whig. Hell, he could be a Libertarian, a Satanist, a Scientologist, an Extraterrestrial, or GDI. Let's just say whatever helps you get your job done, that's what this guy is.

"About that … the job," I began. "What should we do? I mean, I know it's usually up to us, but I also know you let Mason have a few details ahead of time. I don't know much of anything about this guy … Does he have children? Are his parents living? Does he have siblings? Where is he from, originally? I feel like I should know these things."

"Are you asking for my help? Because if you are, Peanut, well, today is your lucky day," Rube said. "Because I am going to tell you _the secrets of the world_."

He said the last five words like he was Criss Angel and I'd just been Mindfreaked.

"Please understand that Mason doesn't have that much information," he said, and lowered his voice. "Please understand also I don't do this for everyone or everytime, so don't get used to it. Then again, I don't usually have to get my hands on invitations and security clearances when some Joe Schmoe down the street dies," he griped.

"OK … so ..."

"So, Peanut, you're going in as a brand-new reporter for _Seattle_ magazine, and tonight you're profiling the dashing senator from Washington state with the bright future," Rube said.

"Bright future? I thought he was a drunk and a scumbag," I said.

"George, my dear, I don't care if he's Jack the Ripper reincarnated, someone has to reap him, and that someone is you. So today and tonight, he is both your Sun and your Moon. You'll revolve around him until after a while you'll fall into his orbit, and get close enough to take his soul."

"What about the first part?" I asked nervously. "I mean, what's with the Jack the Ripper crap? Is he dangerous or something?"

"How would I know?" Rube answered. "You know they don't give us that kind of information. What I do know," he added, "is that you will be the one who actually takes his soul."

"What? Me? Why?" I asked. "Who is Mason reaping?"

"Mason isn't there to reap anyone. He's going to be there to create a distraction when you take the senator out, and to make sure you don't get yourself into anything you can't handle," he said. "You see, Peanut, our senator McCullough likes the girls, and he likes them young and pretty, like you. Mason is neither young nor pretty, so that leaves him out of the equation," he finished.

"OK, but how so?" I pressed.

"Well," Rube said, "as a brand-new reporter, you're looking to make a name for yourself. So you're going in armed with a bottle of Macallan 25 to get your subject loose. Our boy really likes his Scotch, and he likes Macallan, neat. Mason will get the liquor for you and show you how to pour it the way McCullough takes it. Your job will require getting to the senator early under the guise of working for the magazine. To him, you're just a pretty girl looking for a good story, and the fact that you're getting him sloshed on his favorite booze at the same time is just gravy."

"Remember, though: you _have_ to get him drunk enough that his staff won't be able to pull him on stage at 8 p.m," he finished "He can't go out until 8:15 at the earliest. Because if they do pull him out before that, you're going to have to reap him on-stage in front of thousands of people."

"Oh," I said. "Shit."

"No, it's only going to come to 'oh, shit' if you don't keep him off that stage before 8:15 pm."

"OK, so what should I wear?" I asked. "What I wore to work?"

"I've got clothes set up for both you and Mason. He'll have them for you when you get home," Rube explained. "He just needs to look like he fits in at a political rally among political types. You need to look the same way, just with a little more _oomph_."

"Oomph?" I repeated.

"Oomph. Sex appeal, Peanut," he answered. "Like when you had the reap at the rock concert. Obviously those clothes won't work here, but some eyeliner and lipstick will. Add a short skirt and heels, shake out your hair, and you'll go far."

I groaned.

"Men, we are but simple creatures," Rube said.

"You don't say," I groaned again.

"Aww, poor George," Rube said with a fair amount of mock sympathy. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, if you delay everything long enough that you finish the reap backstage between 8:15 or 8:20, and Mason creates his distraction outside on the floor by 8:21, you can use that opportunity to walk McCullough away from the crowd a bit early. At 8:24 or so his light show should appear and _voila_! You're home by 9 sharp."

"But what if it doesn't go down exactly like that?" I asked. "What if something goes wrong? Did you plan for that?"

"Now what on earth could go wrong, Peanut?" Rube asked. "What, are you thinking you may not be able to get back to see the senator, or maybe he just won't get drunk enough to stay off the stage until it's time, or maybe you do your part fine and you pop his soul, but then Mason ends up creating such a distraction he gets carted off to jail?"

"Well, no, I hadn't thought of those examples specifically, thanks, but, yeah, any one of those," I stammered.

"Naw, not gonna happen," Rube said. "You'll be fine. Like I said before, Mason has your itinerary of events and your timeline, and he'll be at your place with your change of clothes bagged up and ready to go. Oh, and you find your press credentials and a few other items you'll need in there. Just make sure you're on your way by 6:15, with the plan down and even if Fuck-Up does something to get himself thrown in the hoosegow, just look at it this way: you won't have to pick him up until 6 a.m. tomorrow morning at the earliest, so you can still get a good night's sleep after your work is done."

"Ugh," I grunted, to convey my disapproval of the plan, but before I could say anything else, Rube said, "See, Peanut? It's almost foolproof," and hung up.

I didn't know who I wanted to kill more just then, Rube or myself.


	19. Funny, It Doesn't Feel Like Halloween

**Disclaimer: Still don't own Dead Like Me. Still would like to. Still no smut. I've had to cut the final chapters up more than I'd originally intended since I had 30 pages written and edited.**

**(Dude. Trust me, I know.)**

We are still in George's POV.

**Chapter 19: Funny, It Doesn't Feel Like Halloween**

Mason was at the house when I got home from work, but since we needed to be headed out by 6:15 at the latest, I didn't have time to say much to him after he gave me the garment bag containing the clothes Rube had sent over for me. I took Rube's outline upstairs with me to look over while I dressed.

I'd just taken off the last of my work clothes and was standing in my bra and panties when I unzipped the garment bag.

I immediately regretted it.

_Fuck … _

The black suit inside was my size, but the skirt was atrocious—much shorter than anything I'd ever wear and featuring an overtly slutty slit up the left leg.

_Oh, come on, Rube, you can't be serious! This is such a total cliché. _

The jacket looked OK but very fitted—not too tight, but there still wasn't much room for a whole lot of shirt underneath. Still, it was fine. _Not terrible_, I thought. _I've seen worse_ ...

… _Which would be this shirt_.

It was a plain white crepe blouse-thing, with long sleeves and buttons going up the front. The material was totally sheer, but the biggest problem was the neckline. Instead of buttoning all the way to the top like most dress shirts, this one stopped short, mainly because it had a different kind of collar. It actually looked a bit like a butterfly collar because it was wide, although I could tell this one flared out so it would lay flat under the jacket's lapels.

Sadly, I would have rather worn a butterfly-collared shirt. At least it would make the outfit more modest. As it was, I could see that this shirt's neckline was made to dip down almost to the spot where my jacket buttoned.

_Otherwise known as the Equator._

The shoes—plain black heels—were high with pointy closed toes, but they weren't awful. If I was careful, I might not even fall down. Rube had packed a small bag at the bottom of the garment bag and I opened it to find … _oh, no fucking way, __you have got to be kidding me with this!... _underwear.

More specifically, it was a sheer, lacy navy bra and matching panties, and I could tell the flimsy bra would show right through the white crepe dress shirt. I pulled out a press badge with my photo printed on it, identifying me as Millie Lawson from _Seattle_ magazine.

_Maybe I can pin the damn thing in the middle of my chest to help cover up all the skin I'll be flashing, _I thought to myself. _Besides, __I'm sure blood pouring down from my clavicle to my boobs would be quite a turn-on for ol' Richard. _

_Then again, what if it was?_

_Eww._ I pushed that disturbing thought right out of my mind and reached into the bag one last time, where I found a voice recorder and a nice Mont Blanc pen and leather dayrunner to finish off my reporter gear. _I'll be keeping these, _I decided.

I looked at my watch—it was 5:50 p.m. There wasn't any time to do otherwise, so I put the God-awful outfit on and grabbed my cell as I headed into the bathroom.

I dialed Rube's number, put the phone on speaker, and placed it on the sink as I started to try to imagine what I might do in terms of hair and makeup.

If this was a joke and my real outfit was downstairs, I was going to kill Rube. It would have to wait until after I'd changed out of this skank costume, but I would make sure he was less _un_dead and more _actually_ dead.

"Peanut," Rube said. I didn't think he'd run out and gotten Caller ID since we last spoke, so unless he'd developed sudden psychic powers, I assumed he was expecting to hear from me.

"Rube, what the hell?" I said.

"Calm down, George," he said, knowing exactly why I'd called. "It's not meant to be representative of your personal style or moral values."

"Then what the _fuck_, Rube? I look like a hooker," I said, maybe too loudly. "Are you my pimp, Rube? Is that what you are now? Are you planning on turning me out, putting me on the street? Huh? Well?"

"Listen, Peanut. You need to calm down. You have to realize the crux of the entire assignment is the fact you aren't gonna have a lot of time. Especially if you're planning on making these phone calls all night," he said pointedly. "This outfit, your look tonight, it's merely a means to an end. It's a way to elicit a maximum result in a minimum amount of time. Maybe it sucks, maybe it's sexist, but tonight it's your job."

"Shit! You _are_ pimping me out!" I said, defintely too loudly this time. "What, exactly, are you expecting me to _do_ with this jerk_?_"

He sighed. "If you do your job well, Georgia, nothing. In fact, I'm expecting—n_o, I'm telling_—you to do absolutely _nothing _you think I'm asking you to do. We talked about this already. I need you to flirt a little, get him too drunk to go onstage on time, let Mason create a diversion for you, and send this guy into his light show. And that, Georgia, is _all_."

I'd already opened my mouth to slap together a pissy retort but he cut me off.

"Oh, and Peanut? _Don't even think about not doing your hair and makeup," _he added. " You better get a move on. It's already 6:00."

He hung up.

_Fuuuuuuck!_ I slammed the sides of my fists on the countertop and took a long, deep breath. I'd wiped off my work makeup as Rube and I were arguing, and now I felt tears start to well in my eyes from sheer frustration. I didn't know what to do. What did he expect me to make myself look like? I was at a complete loss.

Just then, Daisy appeared in the doorway. "Georgia? Rube called," she started softly. Then she looked at me and changed her tone. "My God! What are you wearing? You look like some kind of cheap harlot!"

"Yeah, I'm aware," I said, pissily. "Why the hell did Rube call you? I just got off the phone with him."

"He asked me to do your makeup and how did he put it?" she began. "Um … oh, right: 'pouf' out your hair."

"Nuh-uh. No fucking way."

"Seriously, Georgia, it's gonna be fine," she said, her gentle tone back. "I promise I'll make you look like the most expensive escort on Capitol Hill."

"Excellent," I groaned.

She worked fast. When she was done, I had on way too much makeup and my hair fairly screamed "Take me, big boy," but I have to give it to Daisy—she actually made me look as good and as normal as she possibly could.

"Wow, thank you, Daisy," I said quietly. "I appreciate it."

"Of course, Georgia," she said. "You know, you really are a beautiful girl. I know I said differently when I first got here, but I have a real problem with saying things like that and I'm sorry. Don't be self-conscious, OK? You're gonna knock 'em dead. I've known guys like this McCullough fellow, and if you find yourself in a situation where you don't have time to be subtle, it's OK to resort to shouting."

"Thanks, that helps."

"All right," she said. "Now, you just need to get going."

As we headed downstairs, I was actually feeling a little better thanks to my unexpected bonding session with Daisy, until, that is, I remembered what I was wearing and who was downstairs waiting for me.

I started to freak out a little again.

It was all right, though. I saw Mason waiting at the foot of the stairs, and if I was in Bizarro World then so was he, although at least he looked nice, if a little uncomfortable.

He'd changed into a conservative navy-blue suit, a white point-collared shirt and a red-and-blue striped tie. His oxfords were freshly shined and his hair was parted on the side, having been very thoroughlyand carefully combed.

_Hmm. I wonder if Daisy did Mason's hair, too._

I found myself hoping she didn't.

Like his suit, Mason himself was quiet and restrained.

"Erm, we have to go," he finally said. "Can't let the is pervy bloke die on stage and have people noticing, can we? Are you ready?"

Just a few days ago I'd have made a sarcastic comment: "No, I'm sorry, I just realized I need to go back upstairs and get just a tiny bit whorier. Give me five more minutes."

Tonight, though, I just said, "Mmm-hmm," then studied the floor like it was a calculus textbook as I walked over to grab my car keys.

"Did you get the liquor?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "It's right here," he said, indicating the bottle in his right hand. "Oh, and these from Rube." He indicated a couple small items I couldn't quite see in his left hand, which I hoped weren't for me.

He held the front door on our way out. I wanted to say something to cut the tension, but he was being so quiet I decided it probably wasn't the best idea.

"Thanks," I said awkwardly. I unlocked the car with a beep.

I sat down carefully in the drivers' seat, tossed my messenger bag in the back and fired up the Mustang.

"So, what else besides the Macallan did you say you grabbed back there?" I asked.

"Oh, erm, I didn't," he said. "Say anything, that is. But it's these."

He held out his hand and I felt relieved to realize the two small pieces were for Mason, not me.

"Let me help you with those," I said. I reached across and affixed the "McCullogh for Senate" sticker to his right lapel, putting the American flag stickpin through his left. I was careful to approximate the location of his heart since I couldn't just reach over and lay my hand across his chest. He watched my hands work. I straightened his jacket.

"There," I said.

"Oh, fuck!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, shit—did I stick you?" I asked.

"No," he said.

"Well, what is it, then?" I asked.

He looked down miserably at the pin. "Oh, for fuck's sake. I'm a bloody Yank!" he cried.

I couldn't help laughing.

"I promise it's not so bad," I said. "Hey, look at it this way: at least _you're_ not dressed like a hooker!"

He looked over at me for a split second. Then, something strange happened. For the first time in days, Mason and I shared a laugh.


	20. Some Politicians Like Strange Beds

**Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own it. Still no smut yet, just some angst as we build toward the nasty. **

**George's POV**

**Ch. 20. Some Politicians Like Strange Beds, Fellows**

We got to the Renaissance Ballroom with plenty of time to spare and immediately split up. I went straight back to the dressing rooms, flashing my press credentials to the Senator's Press Secretary, and even though she gave me a dirty, knowing look when she saw the way I was dressed, she let me right in anyway.

As Rube predicted, Senator McCullogh—who'd insisted I call him "Rick" even before I pulled out the Macallan—was not a hard sell. By 7:55 p.m., he seemed well on his way to an impressive drunk. Desipte his reputation as a cheater and a perv, Senator Rick didn't really ask me to do anything other than sit with him, keep him company and keep the drinks coming. Sure, he flirted with me relentlessly, but I was able to deflect his come-ons easily enough without ever having to go all Super George on his ass.

The only thing I felt bad about was my complicity in duping someone else's husband, even if said husband was easily duped.

_Seriously. This job is so fucked up sometimes. _

Rick, ever the happy drunk, was laughing when his campaign leaders came for him at 8 p.m., sharp. They, however, were less than amused.

One of them—a tall man I'd heard someone call "Hank"—immediately turned on me. "All of you, you're exactly the same," he raged. "Leeches. You think he's handsome, you think he's powerful, and you think he's your ticket, so you show up here with your skirt hiked up and your tits popping out!"

"Trust me, Hank," I said. "I punch my own ticket."

_In hindsight that didn't come out entirely right._

"Then why are you here?" the Press Secretary demanded."Does _Seattle_ magazine regularly ply its subjects with alcohol? What did you get on that recorder, there?" she asked and held out her hand.

I gave it to her without a fuss. "Nothing much but a few drunken campaign stories," I said, truthfully. "You can trust me when I tell you _Seattle _magazine won't be printing one word about your candidate. Please, take it. I have no problem with that."

She pressed "delete" and handed it off to a lackey.

"And in the bag ... ?" she asked.

"Also not a problem," I said, and passed my messenger bag to her.

She confiscated my new dayrunner, but she seemed otherwise satisfied and handed my bag back to me.

"And what about your pockets?" she asked, taking a step toward me.

"If you're planning on touching me, I have to tell you, I _will_ have a problem with that," I warned. "But I'm not unreasonable. I'm willing to compromise."

She stopped and nodded to me. I obliged by pulling my suit and skirt pockets inside out. Nothing.

I glanced at my watch. It was 8:12. Rube was right; the stall tactics were working.

I wondered where Mason was.

"Isn't he supposed to be on stage right now?" I asked, indicating the senator. I was trying to gauge my time frame.

"We're holding him back a few more minutes," she said curtly.

"Before I go, may I say goodbye to him?" I asked.

I was surprised when she didn't argue with me. Maybe she was too used to this whole scene by now.

_I know how that feels._

"You have one minute," she told me.

I walked back to the staging area, where Rick and one of his advisors were having a serious conversation. The advisor waved me back and stepped aside. Rick didn't seem so happy anymore.

"Why do I always do this to myself?" he asked me. "My wife is going to leave me, y'know."

"No, I didn't know that," I said, squatting down beside his seat. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. She's only staying with me through the election so it won't hurt my chances," he said, sadly. "But it's the drinking, too, y'know? It's going to get out."

"Listen, I'm going to be honest with you," I said, putting my hand on his arm reassuringly. "The drinking? It's out. But you know what?"

"What?" he asked.

"You don't have a thing to worry about. Neither the state of your marriage nor the rumors of your drinking are going to hurt your chances," I said truthfully, and I rubbed his arm sympathetically as I took his soul. "What you need to do now is get out there and talk to your supporters. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yeah," he said, shaking his head. "Yes."

"See? Like I said, nothing to worry about," I smiled. "It was nice to meet you, Rick."

"Nice to meet you, too, Millie," he said with the dazed expression of someone who wasn't quite himself.

As I was ushered out through the back hallway, I heard a man on stage apologizing for the delay and knew he was preparing to announce Rick. I stepped out into the main ballroom where, sure enough, five gravelings were in the rafters above the podium, hard at work, unscrewing and tugging at what looked like a very heavy light fixture.

_Nasty little fuckers._

"Without further adieu, voters of the great state of Washington, I present your incumbent senator, Richard McCullough!" the man on stage said in a booming voice and the crowd broke into applause.

When the lights came crashing down just a heartbeat later, chaos enrupted. Half the crowd was still clapping while the other half went silent, a few scattered gasps passing through the room. Then, just as suddenly, someone with an English accent screamed, "Bollocks! Typical fucking American political bullshit propaganda!"

_Mason. _

I heard him before I saw him. when he began screaming the lyrics to "God Save the Queen" (the Sex Pistols' version, of course). Then he was jumping up and down, back and forth, side to side, still in his suit and tie, pumping his fist in the air and wildly bobbing his head as he sang.

It was a hell of a diversion, and the crowd, confused, strained to find the source of the singing, as Mason started to really ham it up. Still bouncing, he ripped open his shirt at the chest like he was Clark Kent turning into Superman. Only instead of a big red _S_, Mason's t-shirt bore a large Union Jack in the center.

"Bugger all!" he yelled.

As much as Mason's antics were cracking me up, I noticed some of the venue security team had begun searching for the source of the disturbance. _Shit!_ Rick appeared beside me, looking pale and dazed. I'd seen the same expression a million times on the faces of souls who'd died violent deaths.

_In fact, I still haven't been able to forget the face of one girl in particular. _

"Mason, let's _go_!" I yelled. He heard me, and jogged over to where Rick and I stood.

"Georgie, you did it!" he said.

"You, too," I said. "Nice Johnny Rotten impression."

"Millie?" Rick asked. "What's going on? How did I end up out here? Did someone put something in my drink?"

"No," I said. "We need to get out of here, though, OK? Before my associate gets arrested?"

"Your associate?" he asked. "Was it you who put something in my drink? I feel like I'm dying. Are you trying to kill me?"

"No," I said.

"Is he?" he asked, indicating Mason.

"No," I said.

Just then someone in the crowd screamed, "Oh, God, he's dead!"

"Huh?" Rick gasped, straining to see.

"Rick? Senator McCullough?" I said, bringing his focus back to me. "I need you not to look up there. Trust me. Let's go get some fresh air with my friend, Mason."

"Hello, Senator," Mason said.

"Mr. Mason," Rick said quietly. "I think I need to sit down."

"Right," Mason said. "So let's go this way, yeah?"

We hustled Rick out to the main parking lot where his light show beginning to appear.

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

"Rick, do you remember when I told you not to worry about anything hurting your campaign?" I asked, and he nodded. "Well, you don't have to worry about anything at all, anymore, ever."

"What?" he asked. "Why?"

"Do you remember the woman who screamed back there just as we were heading out?" I asked.

"The one who said, 'He's dead?'" he asked.

"That's the one," I said. "Well, I'm afraid she's was talking about you."

"Yeah," he began. "Wait … what? No! You said you two weren't killers!"

"We aren't," Mason said. "Let's just say we know people in the business."

"As in the mafia?" Rick asked, horrified.

"No, not as in the mafia," I interjected. "I'm going to tell you something that you're going have a hard time believing, but it's true."

He stared at me blankly.

"I'm ... fuck it. I'm a grim reaper," I said. "And so is my associate, here. Do you remember when I touched your arm before I left your dressing area?"

"Yeah," he said.

"That was me taking your soul out of your body before you died so you wouldn't feel any pain," I explained.

"What?" he asked. "Wait, who put you up to this? What the hell is going on? Where are the cameras?"

"No cameras, mate," Mason said. "She's telling you the truth. Every day we get a list of people who are going to die, and today you were on it. I'm very sorry."

"Bullshit," Rick said.

"No bullshit," I replied.

"A list?" he asked. "From whom?"

"From our boss," I said.

"As in God?" Rick asked.

"Well, no," I said. "Not God, exactly. More like Death."

"Our boss is a middle management type," Mason chimed in. "A real paper pusher."

"And he's the one who told you I'm going to die tonight?" he asked.

"You already have," I said. "Our boss gets a master list each day and he splits it up into assignments: we get a name, an address and estimated time of death. We got your information this morning."

"But lots of people die every day," he argued. "That's illogical. You'd have to have a massive database. How do you get everything done, make sure the information you have is right? What system do you use to keep track of everything?"

_Shit._

"Post-It notes," I finally, said, coughing.

"Did you just say you use Post-It notes, and then try to cover it with a cough?" he asked.

"No," I lied. "I just had to cough."

"And you think it's me who died in there because you saw it on a _Post-It note_? From your paper pusher boss?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"I don't believe it," he argued.

"Believe it," Mason said, producing from his jacket pocket the yellow note with Rick's information written across it in Rube's neat script.

As Mason let the note drop, Rick made a grab for it, but it passed through his hand with a puff of smoke before it landed on the ground. Rick tried to pick the note up repeatedly, unsuccessfully, staring incredulously at the smoke puffs that shot up in his wake each time.

That seemed to cement it for him.

"Shit," he said. "I'm dead."

"Yes," I said.

"Because you got a note," he said. "A stupid yellow Post-It note,"

"Well, they're not always yellow," Mason said. "I once got a purple one."

"Purple? What does purple mean?" Rick asked.

"Erm ... it meant the boss ran out of yellow," Mason admitted and averted his eyes.

"Huh," Rick said, contemplating Mason's statement as though it had some deeper meaning. "And those lights are for me?"

"Yep, that's your ride," I said.

"Where am I going?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, we don't have access to that information. All we get is what's on the Post-Its," I said.

"Oh," he said. "Well, white lights—that's gotta be a good sign, right?"

"Happpy thoughts," I said, smiling. _Betty was always so much better at this._

"I really just go into the light, like they say?" Rick asked.

"Yep," I said. "You really just go into the light, like they say."

"Well, thank you, Millie," Rick said, and shook my hand. "Mason."

He walked toward the lights, then broke out into a flat run as he got closer to them. I watched him go headlong into his leap of faith, and I thought, _How sad. He touched my life, and I took his, but he never even knew my real name._

That's when I saw it, and it jolted me out of my melancholy. Rick's light show had taken the form of a what appeared to be a fully staffed brothel.

"Did he just run into ..." Mason began.

"A room full of beds," I finished.

"Yeah," Mason said. "A room full of beds in a whorehouse."

I shook my head.

"Makes sense, actually" I said. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Yes, please," he answered.

I couldn't believe we'd been talking like old friends for the past half-hour or so. It made me realize how much I missed him.

I wanted to cry with relief. I wanted to run, screaming, with joy, to him.

But I didn't dare.

Instead, I opened up my messenger bag and dug out my keys. I wondered how long he and I would do this dance, circling each other. Don't get me wrong, it was a vast improvement over the yelling, hurt and rage portion of the program, but I wanted Mason back. Regular Mason. _Mason_ Mason.

I unlocked the car, and he mumbled something I didn't entirely understand. I was about to ask him to repeat himself when I made out the words "your iPod."

I looked back to where Rick's light show had been, watching it sparkle and fade. I really did hope wherever he was headed would be a happy place, even if it was a little on the freaky side.

_Hell, I'm a grim reaper. Who am I to judge? Freaky is my business._

Absentmindedly, I handed Mason the iPod from my bag. He was fumbling with it as I reached into the center console and found a pair of earbuds.

"Here," I offered, holding them out.

I didn't know it until a minute or two later, but our truce was already over. Mason took the earbuds from my hand, wordlessly, and he wouldn't speak to me again during the rest of the ride. He attached the plug to the device and shoved the buds in his ears. He was still wearing his suit jacket and white shirt, although he hadn't bothered to rebutton it so his t-shirt was hanging out.

He was slumped against the interior of the passenger door, staring out the window. He looked upset but I didn't have any idea why. When I saw him tugging under his jacket collar I realized he was reaching for his hoodie, having forgotten he wasn't wearing it. _He's so anxious to distance himself from me that he's literally trying to put a barrier between us._

He didn't even want me looking at him. When he remembered he wasn't wearing his normal jacket, he slumped further down in his seat and turned the volume way up as a final method of blocking me out.

_What the fuck? _Five minutes ago it looked like we were going to pull through this—if not tonight, then soon. He was looking at me, speaking to me … shit, he was genuinely happy and proud that we'd pulled it off. I glanced over at him. He had a nervous habit of raking his fingers through his hair, and he was doing it now.

It had a way of making him look wildly sexy, I thought, sadly, and my heart fractured.

Me, I was still in full costume, fuck-me hair and makeup intact, tarted up to the nines, but he didn't even notice.

I wanted to scream. Or maybe I wanted to cry.

Actually, I decided I wanted to scream _and_ cry.

But I didn't dare.


	21. My Name is Mud

**Disclaimer: Dead Like Me? Not mine. This story? Totally mine.**

George's POV, still.

**Chapter 21: My Name is Mud**

I was glad the house was dark when we got home. Either Daisy was well into an evening of beauty sleep—which wasn't likely considering the way she'd been camping out in our living room the last few days—or she was out with some poor, dumb schmuck. My money was on the latter.

_Whatever. Some poor, dumb schmuck's loss is this girl's gain_, I thought. Yeah, we made sort of nice while she was helping to tart me up like a high-class call girl, but still. It would be nice to be rid of Daisy's bullshit, if only for a night.

The ride home with Mason had been about as fun as Chinese water torture. We'd managed to make it through the reap just fine, then boom! He went into complete radio silence. He'd been sulking since he'd asked me for my iPod. I'd taken it out of my bag and handed it to him, and that's when it all inexplicably went to shit. I put the stupid player in his hand, he took it, and all of the sudden it was like I was watching someone with lightning-quick speed process four of the five stages of grief—denial, anger, bargaining and depression—in the span of about 10 seconds.

Or, if I wanted to be really specific, when I handed Mason my iPod, he looked at me like he was Wile E. Coyote and I was the Road Runner, and we were at the exact point in the cartoon when I'd foiled his plan, yelled _BEEP! BEEP!_ (y'know, just to be an asshole and add insult to injury), hightailed it away and left him to realize he's holding a live grenade. Cue the "Oh, shit!" cloud (_POOF!_) over poor old Wile E.'s head, and _BOOM!_ That asshole Road Runner has fucked him once again.

I was watching Looney Tunes and eating cereal one morning when I realized it was a pretty apt analogy for any reaper, actually. Because just like Wile E. Coyote, we repears don't die when someone blows us up (or when some paranoid, drug-addled crackhead we're trying to reap, say, shoots us in the face at point-blank range), but it doesn't mean we can't still experience every single awful feeling that accompanies it: confusion, indignity, panic, pain, anger. Sure, we heal fast. But like Wile E., there's a period of time we're standing there all fucked up and left to clean up the mess.

I had no idea what horrible thing I'd done to Mason to send him into such a rapid cycle of anger and despair, but I was too tired to argue.

I knew I'd been a real bitch to him the past couple days, and I felt more than a single twinge of guilt about it, but I didn't think that was to blame in this situation.

Besides, I'd recently begun to consider the probability that Mason was telling the truth about Daisy, although I hadn't had the chance to tell him that. Mason could be a lot of things, sure—he could be a drunk and a layabout, a horny bastard and a skirt chaser, a sometime junkie and petty criminal, but one thing I'd never, ever taken him for was a liar. He didn't have to, because he was completely open about himself. I knew Rube and Roxy thought Mason was shady and sometimes they underestimated him because of it, but even they would admit he'd never tried to hide his self-destructive tendences. His unlife was an open—if sometimes extremely sordid—book.

Mason's book was a story in two parts—both long and twisted tales—but they followed a singular, coherent theme.

Daisy, on the other hand … well, she was an entirely different story. If Mason's book was perhaps a bit too open, Daisy's was always closed. Her book was a pretty pink diary wrapped in a big shiny bow, but its insides didn't match its outsides. The insides were a collection of too-short (and sometimes too-sad) sketches of a girl's life, with horrible, scary monsters doodled in the margins.

But, hey, that was okay, because the outside was pretty enough to be distracting, and besides, the insides were locked safely away.

Daisy's story also was in two parts, but even though they were packaged the same, the second volume hadn't been fitted with a lock. Therefore its scenes were very carefully crafted, and there were no monsters sketched in its margins because monsters, well, monsters simply weren't palatable for public consumption.

Still, even if the first part of Daisy's story remained largely a mystery, I didn't feel too sorry for her. She'd made it work to her advantage. If Daisy, Daisy Adair had never quite made it as a movie star in her lifetime, she was making up for it in spades with one helluva star turn in the ever-unfolding drama that was her unlife.

_Rimshot! Thank you, ladies and germs! I'll be here all week. Tip your waiter. Try the veal. _

I began to genuinely, really smile in spite of myself, and it felt good—that is, until I caught Mason sneaking a peek, and he looked a bit like a puppy someone had been kicking for fun. I remember when it was Daisy who used to make him look that way, and how gross it was to watch her dangle herself in front of him like a tasty blonde Milk Bone when she thought no one was looking, only to kick him again as soon as someone turned around.

_It really sucks to realize that this time, apparently, I'm the gross one._

I'd gone through a lot of crap myself the past couple days thanks to Mason, but looking at him now, I suddenly realized it was only fair that I be the one to extend an olive branch. I had to try to make it right, and if I couldn't do that, I had to at least try to make it better. Because if nothing else, we'd always been friends, right? If I was really honest with myself, and it appeared to be the route I was taking, he was probably the closest thing I had to a best friend. I mean, Daisy and I basically just tolerated each other because of the house; Betty had been gone for what seemed like forever now (and I still missed her _every day_); Rube _had_ to talk to me because he was my boss, as was Delores (and I did like Delores, but seriously, she set up individual Twitter accounts for every one of her cats and had recently begun spending most of her spare time adhering to a strict schedule of writing and posting each of their tweets in a timely manner—shudder); and Roxy—well, okay, Roxy's cool and stuff—but deep down, Roxy she'd always intimidated the crap out of me.

Factor in my undead status, my trainwreck first time with Trip, and my social calendar wasn't exactly bursting at the seams.

Until Mason.

_Ah, Mason, Mason, Mason, _I thought reflexively. My lips began to curl up at the corners in spite of themselves.

Mason and his stunts, his schemes, his peculiar habits, his odd daily existence ... _that accent, those blue eyes, that dead sexy grin_. I forced myself to stop smiling; after all, letting myself smille when nothing was resolved would be like tellling people I'd gotten the job when I hadn't really even had an interview yet. It would probably jinx everything, and if I was being honest there was no way in hell I was about to do anything to risk jinxing this.

Because deep down, it was true: Mason really was my best friend. If that wasn't going to be the case anymore, from now on, at the very least we were still going to be colleagues—I mean, hell, we might have to work together, to see each other every day for the next hundred or two years.

Then again, considering our shared, (un)chosen profession, we might not. Which would be a whole lot worse.

_Whatever. The point is, no matter what happens, he and I need to be able to at least tolerate each other, right?_

Luckily I didn't have to stand there and keep agonizing over it too much longer, thank God, because I realized my olive branch was sitting right there in front of me in the kitchen: Booze. Hooch. Good old alcohol.

_If this was a story, _I thought, _this would be a pretty convenient _deus ex machina_. _

Unfortunately, though, it wasn't a story. It was my life, my _un_life. It was important.

So I took a deep breath and set my jaw.

_OK, George, here we go._


	22. Stings Like a Bee

**Disclaimer: I don't own Dead Like Me, not even 22 chapters in. Sigh.**

George's POV

**Chapter 22: Floats Like a Butterfly, or Stings Like a Bee?**

You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men? Well, they aren't kidding.

I expected something silence-shattering or at least eloquent to come out of my mouth. Instead, I sputtered weakly, "Um, hey."

_Jesus, Georgia. You might as well go ahead and stick a fork in this puppy, because it's just about done._

Which would be par for the course, actually, because if this job has taught me anything, it's that everything dies. Mason said it himself the first day we met, and it had scared the shit out of me then. Now? Well, now, let's just say I've come to terms with a lot of things.

_Have I ever mentioned I've been told I internalize shit way too much? _

"So, what would you say to a drink?" I asked and tried to sound casual.

"I dunno," he said. "How about, 'Hello, drink, how's it goin'? I think I've met a couple thousand of your closest mates.'" But even though his words were funny, his tone was flat and distant.

"Just a couple thousand?" I said, aiming for sarcastic and flirty, like we used to do, but t didn't work.

"What I mean is, what would you say to _having_ a drink?" I said. "You know, a nice reward for a job well done?"

"Nah, I'm good."_ Same flat tone._

"Seriously, we still have, like, half a liquor store in here," I said. "How about a … vodka, rocks?"

"Nah."

"Okay, then, a whiskey sour?" I offered.

"Nope," he said, and he popped the ending "p," for emphasis, I assumed, although I thought it did a better job of making him like sound like a real dick.

"Wine spritzer?" I joked, thinking it might help to inject a little levity into the situation, but it didn't.

I stood silently for a minute, willing my jaw to unclench, willing my brain to relax, focusing on my breathing.

_This is getting seriously ridiculous. He's making me work for it like I'm in a freaking Lamaze class._

"Are you hungry? We don't have a ton of stuff, but we do have a few things. I could heat up some chicken noodle soup, or these Spaghettios," I pressed forward, rummaging around in the cabinets. "Here's a packet of ... eww, some very old Top Ramen."

"I don't want anything to eat."

"Well, why don't you at least sit down?" I asked. "The remote should be by the couch if you want to watch TV."

"I'm fine."

"OK," I said, finally, trying to maintain a friendly tone. "I give. If you don't want a drink or something to eat, and you don't want to sit down, what do you want?"

"Ah, so there it is, the million-dollar question!" he said, mockingly. "_What do I want? _Well, I suppose I'm still trying to sort that out at the moment, aren't I?"

_What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_

I could feel myself getting angry, but I fought it.

I paused to consider my next move, and it was then that I realized he hadn't moved at all since we'd come inside. I'd been bouncing around like a rubber ball but he'd just stood in the entryway, leaning against the column inside the door.

Suddenly it dawned on me: _He hasn't decided yet if he's going to stay or go_.

My first impulse was to say, "You know what? I tried. Suit yourself, asshole. From this point on, I don't give a shit."

But it wasn't the truth.

He'd asked to couch surf so many nights that we'd just come to expect to find him here, but tonight he was really thinking about leaving. I watched him fiddling around with the iPod, although I understood it was less about him being enthralled by the stupid MP3 player and more about him not having to look at me.

_Where would he go? Would he come back? When? _Sure, he was being a total asswipe, but I didn't want him sleeping on a park bench somewhere, _or worse … _That's when I decided he was going to stay. The trouble was, I had absolutely no idea how to stop him from leaving.

I was on the verge of fucking everything up if I didn't manage to reach him somehow, so I decided I'd drop the pretenses and try the straightforward approach.

"Mason," I began, "No more bullshit, OK? I don't understand what's happened tonight. What's going on?"

I waited for him to look at me.

I'd always thought he had such great eyes—they were the very first things I'd noticed about him, actually—because they were always sparkling, like he was having such a good time. The first time I saw him he was bringing those two crackheads out from their reap and they were arguing with him about something stupid, and he to shut up, that they had just murdered each other in a crackhouse, and as such, they absolutely did not deserve his attention or respect, and the whole time he was so cool and his eyes were so bright it made me me think, if even for just a second, _Hey, maybe being a reaper won't totally suck after all._

Later, as I got to know him better, I discovered his eyes almost always looked that way, like was on the verge of some kind of mischief (which he usually was), and even if it ended up backfiring (which it usually did), he looked sexy doing it.

Now, his eyes weren't sparkling so much as they were glinting, and after a moment he turned their focus on me.

_"You _want to know what's wrong?" he asked, glaring. "Is that right? Well, I hope you're not looking for an answer from me, because ... because ... bloody hell, Georgia!"

"What?" is all I could sputter out.

"Oh, you have got to be shitting me!" he yelled. "_'What?' _Like you have _no_ idea. Bollocks! I have to say I never expected this from you, Georgia. From Daisy, sure, but not from you!"

"Mason, what the fuck?" I said, yelling, too, in frustration. My face was burning and I knew it my cheeks had to be red but I was past the point of caring about it.

"_'What the fuck?'_ Oh, I wish I knew what the fuck, believe me!" he spat back. "You've spent the past few days avoiding me like I'm a right wanker ... but then tonight, at the reap, you were treating me _almost_ like a normal person again, and because I'm a fucking nutter, apparently, I thought, 'Right, then, Mason, she's giving you a chance, and if you don't cock it up, you might actually be able to talk to her, and maybe, just maybe, someday soon she'll let you back in to her life!"

He was almost gasping, but he kept going, as if breathing had become secondary to finishing his argument.

"Oh, it's fucking pathetic, believe me, I know, and it only gets worse!" he yelled. "So I finally got the balls to speak to you tonight—to make sodding_ small talk_ with you—but no! You couldn't even be bothered with that. You wouldn't even answer the stupid bullshit question I'd worked out about your stupid fucking iPod," he said. "Did you know I actually worked out a question to ask you _in advance_ because I thought if I asked you about something completely mundane, there's no possible way I could piss you off. Isn't that so fucking sad and ridiculous?"

"Your stupid fucking iPod, which has some really rubbish shit on it, by the way," he added.

His eyes were practically shooting sparks, and I thought for a second his anger might actually manifest itself as fire, like when Sissy Spacek fries the school and eventually pretty much everything else in town at the end of _Carrie_. But he just stood there, glaring at me, eyes blazing, panting from the effort of his argument.

If I was being truthful, and apparently we were _both_ being truthful to a fault tonight, his eyes were almost working against his words. They were especially clear and blue tonight, and framed as they were by those ridiculously long, dark lashes of his, they looked almost feminine, not to mention wanton—he'd harbored his anger so long it had bubbled up inside him until he had reached an almost physical need for release.

In fact, he looked so sexy with his big blue eyes, his breath coming so ragged, and his hair so mussed because he'd been raking his fingers through it relentlessly, that I almost couldn't stop myself from either throwing myself at his feet to beg for forgiveness or straight-up jumping his bones, or both.

I said _almost._

I knew I'd just been standing there the whole time slackjawed, with my mouth hanging open like some big, dumb animal while he yelled at me and I took it, and that really pissed me off. And he'd had the nerve to scream at me because I let him take my iPod but I'd—_gasp!_—handed it to him instead of answering some random question he'd mumbled beforehand?

_Oh, no fucking way._

I started to shake. I couldn't help it.

"Are you fucking joking? Are you seriously going to stand here and yell at me about because I didn't talk to you about a fucking iPod?" I shouted. "I didn't even understand what you said, save for the words 'your iPod,' which is why I handed you the damn thing, by the way! Is that _seriously_ why you were treating me like the world's biggest asshole when we were in the car driving home? Or was it my offering to make you a drink or something to eat or whatever when we got here, that really set you off?"

"Fuck the iPod!" he said, and he threw it across the room onto the couch. "I only wanted to talk to you and you didn't even acknowledge me! But then we get here and all the sudden you go into Betty Crocker mode—more like a Stepford Wife from Hell, actually—trying to get me blitzed on cocktails and force-feed me tins of soup? What the hell was that all about? Christ, Georgia, I'm honestly starting to get whiplash from trying to follow your mood swings from one minute to the next!"

"You asshole!" I yelled. "Mood swings? _Mood swings?_ Are you kidding me? What kind of sexist bullshit is that? You're going to tell me you're actually pissed off at me because I _handed_ you my iPod—_which I thought you wanted me to do, by the way? _And then on top of that you think I've been ignoring you for the hell of it? I mean, it couldn't be because I was confused after Daisy fed me all her bullshit after I almost had sex with you! Do you know how that felt? Jesus Christ, Mason! I mean, it's not like I've never seen you make a pass at Daisy or declare your undying love for her or just follow her around waiting for a pat on the head like a good boy! It's not like I've never seen you try to hook up with a friend before, or a friend of a friend, or, oh, hell, I don't know, any woman you see! In fact, the way I hear it, with you, any girl who's willing is fair game, right? It's not like you get the chance to fuck some random emo skank in a record-store copy room every day, so you've gotta take it when you can get it, huh?"

"I mean, really, how could any of _that _prossibly have influenced my thinking in any way?" I asked. "And just so you know, no, I don't think you made a pass at Daisy, but did you ever give me a chance to say it? Did you? Fuck no, you didn't!"

I could feel the heat pulsing in my cheeks and I knew my face must be about fourteen shades of fuchsia.

Afterward, we were both silent for a while, long enough for my breathing to start to even out, untill finally he spoke.

"You believe me, is that what you just said?" he asked. He wasn't yelling anymore, but his tone was very matter-of-fact. His eyes looked almost normal, if somewhat duller than usual, if only because they weren't currently trying to immolate me.

"Yes ," I said.

"But you didn't believe me at first," he said quietly. "Do you really think I'm that much of a fuck-up?"

"No," I said. "I mean, let's face it, Mason, you _can _be a fuck-up, but who _can't_? It wasn't about that. All I knew was it had happened before and I was scared. What if I put myself out there again, made myself available again, let myself love you, and then found out you couldn't do the same?"

"Did you really think I was going to treat you like that prat, Trip?" he asked.

"Not intentionally," I said.

"And did you mean to just tell me you're completely in love with me?" he asked.

_Wait, what? I hadn't said that, had I?_

"Um, what?" I stammered. "Fuck."

My face flushed hot again and I knew I was pink.

But when he started to smile, even just a little bit at first, it was such an unexpectedly welcome sight I wouldn't have cared if I turned burgundy and stayed that way.


	23. Hell Freezes Over, Thaws Back Out

**Disclaimer: I don't own Dead Like Me, although I did download a couple episodes that one time.**

**Author's note: This is the last chapter before I'm going to need to slap an M rating on here.**

George's POV

**Chapter 23: Hell Freezes Over, Thaws Back Out**

We were quiet for a while, then I asked, "Why did you flip out so hard when I asked you if you wanted food or something to drink when we got home?"

Mason thought about it for a minute.

"Part of it was the fact that I was still completely pissed off at you," he said. "The other part was the fact I was seriously annoyed you kept offering me everything in the house except the one thing I wanted."

"God, _please_ just tell me what it is and you can have it!" I said, laughing, relieved we were really, truly speaking again. "The suspense is killing me."

"Yeah, sorry," he said, but he wasn't laughing. "What I should have said is, I don't want a god damn thing, Georgia. Except you."

"Mas—," I began, but before I could get the second syllable out, his lips were against mine, pressing softly at first but inevitably becoming more insistent. By the time his tongue began licking tentavely against the opening of my mouth, I found myself wanting to let him in, in spite of myself.

Then it hit me. _Who the fuck do I think I'm kidding? There's no "in spite" of anything. There hasn't really ever been. I've wanted this since the first time he kissed me on the couch, maybe before. I've wanted this since that night Daisy broke us apart and he ended up leaving me alone in my room. _

_And I sure has hell wanted it now._

So what if I'd been mad at him, suspicious of his feelings for me? I'd spent too much time agonizing over Daisy and her bullshit meddling. Screw her, I decided.

"Georgie, where'd you go?" he asked, lifting my chin up a little to meet his kiss and then he was biting my bottom lip, not hard exactly, but with persistent gentle tugs and deft little licks until I could think of nothing more than a burning desire to feel that tongue in my mouth again and when I parted my lips, he slipped his tongue inside. He still tasted minty, like toothpaste—I didn't taste any alcohol this time, which was unexpected—but as his tongue grew bolder, massaging mine, tasting my mouth, tasting me, exploring everywhere, I forgot everything I'd ever thought about expectations and found myself focused on a sheer blinding need to press my body into his, to touch him, to feel him, to let him feel me. Anywhere. Everywhere.

I couldn't keep myself from groaning, in the very, very best way.

Suddenly Mason pulled back and asked, "This is all right, yeah?"

I appreciated what he was doing. He wanted to be a gentleman about this—we'd already had too many misunderstandings—but right now I needed the old Mason, the dark, witty, jaded, irreverent, cocky, fucked-up, sexy smartass I'd found myself thinking about the past couple days, hell, maybe even the past couple years, I wasn't sure, because I'd never really admitted it to myself.

I tried to indicate consent by forming the words, "God, yes!" but the only thing my mouth could produce sounded like "nnnngggaaaahhhhh." He hesitated, and I didn't know what to do. Did he think I was trying to back out now? Finally, in a moment of total desperation, I did the only thing I could think of: I grabbed him by the lapels of his suit jacket, pulled him in to me and kissed him, hard.

_Mental note to self: learn to groan in pleasure in such a way there will be no confusion next time._

Soon our kisses escalated, became deeper and more urgent—our tongues explored, rolled, tasted, fought for dominance, and I could feel that familiar warm feeling beginning to grow and spread in my stomach. When we finally came up for air, it was brief, and he put his head against mine, shut his eyes and grunted my name against my lips. I shivered from the blatant sexiness of it, but I also couldn't suppress a smirk at this new feeling of raw power I had. Knowing I could affect him that way was so heady I couldn't stop myself from wanting to have a little fun with him. So when he started to kiss me again and I pulled away, he looked at me quizzically.

"George?" he said, then a little louder, "Georgia?"

I leaned into him, and he looked confused by my triumphant smirk, even as I put my tongue in his ear. He groaned a little when I began to to nip at his earlobe. Then I whispered, "So this is all right, yeah?"

When I pulled back to face him, he matched me cocky grin for cocky grin. He pressed his lips against my cheek, laughing against my skin when he said, teasing, "Well, I guess it'll do for now."

One of the things I'd always known about Mason was that he could give as good as he got, and I found myself loving that aspect of him at that moment. When he moved in closer to my ear, he exhaled just a little, and I'm not sure if it was the warmth of his breath in the hollow of my ear, or his words, or both, but a jolt that felt like pure electricity shot up my spine when he whispered, "Well, actually, what I meant to say is, yeah, sure. It's fine."

He was still grinning as his mouth grazed the side of my cheek and then across my mouth followed by the other cheek, and I was grinning again, too, when he stopped at my other ear. I could tell his smile was fading and suddenly it didn't feel like we were joking around anymore when he leaned in and said, in that very low, sexy accent I was growing so fond of, "No, actually, Georgie, what I really meant to say is, yes, this will always be more than all right. In fact," he continued and his words were slow and deliberate in my ear,"if I'm being totally upfront with you, it feels nothing short of Absolutely … Fucking … Fantastic."

He'd taken my earlobe in between his teeth to punctuate the last three words, softly biting, chewing and tugging, and when he finished it was my own breath that was coming out ragged. I swore I felt every individual nerve in my body. Then, when he began to alternate kisses with little licks, from my ear to my cheek down to my neck, it struck me:

_Lightning._

We began kissing again, all lips, tongues and a little bit of teeth. Mason's hands were on my hips, and mine were in his hair, and when he slid his hands down to cup my ass I suddenly couldn't get him close enough, and I clutched him hard by the nape of his neck, pulling him in to me.

I started to feel like I might catch fire from the inside out. I didn't care. In fact, I wanted to.

I flashed back to my first time, with Trip. I'd thought it was so nice, then, being so close to someone. I'd liked him, and he'd liked me, and I'd liked that he'd liked me, and when I realized he found me desirable, it felt good. When we were together, he seemed to want to please me, and I liked that, even if it hurt a little too much for it to be truly pleasurable in the conventional sense.

Afterward, I felt like I'd finally uncovered the secrets of the universe. I understand why people enjoy sex, I thought at the time. Feeling wanted feels good, and it feels nice when someone tries to make you feel good.

And, of course, I wasn't entirely wrong, _but_ _Jesus Christ, I'd had no fucking idea it could be this much better. _

And so far, Mason and I were really only kissing.

Somehow, we were still standing upright, although I realized we were losing footing and stumbling backward, and that my other hand—the one not in his hair, _that dorky, sexy, messy hair_, the one not pawing and pulling at it, at him—was flailing behind me. I found myself reaching back blindly for something to grab on to, to steady us, and I wasn't finding anything. But we were still kissing and touching and biting and licking, and I just said fuck it. I didn't even realize we'd begun to fall until we actually hit the living room floor, with him on top and me on the bottom. Luckily he was able to maneuver his hands up quickly enough to help steady me as well as brace himself for the fall, which kept him from landing on me with the full force of his weight. I wasn't quite as lucky, and I let out a sharp cry as my wrist—the one attached to the aimlessly flailing hand—hit the floor and bent completely backward. When we fell, I went down hard, ass on ground. I yelped. I couldn't help myself. It hurt like a son of a bitch.

Mason pulled himself up and off me and helped me sit up a little, with me leaning into him as he supported me. "Fuck!" he said. "Georgie, oh, your poor, sexy little arse … and … oh, shit, you've broken your wrist. Your hand is completely backward."

Even if you always come back, even if you heal fast, fucking yourself up never hurts any less at the time. I tried not to howl in pain, although I could tell my face was all scrunched up from the effort.

Partly because I didn't want to betray my tough-chick persona, but mostly because I was scared the mood would dissipate and it could be days or more before we were in this position again.

Then suddenly it dawned on me: _I was cremated alive by a flaming space toilet. I was meat in a bag—literally; I watched my own autopsy, for Christ's sake—and yet here I am, still alive, well, so to speak. The point is, __I'll be damned if I'll be__ felled by a broken wrist and a throbbing butt. Because even if one or both was temporarily killing me, neither would, in fact, actually do it. So bring it on. _

"I can pop it back into place if you want," he said.

_Who ever really wants that?_ I wondered, but said, "Do it."

"What? Your wrist?" he asked.

"Of course," I said. "For starters."

He gave me an excited look before telling me to count to three. Before "two" had even formed on my lips, though, he'd already popped my wrist back into place. It still hurt like hell, but I've been run through with a pipe.

_Did you hear that? A pipe. So again, I say, bring it on._

"Sorry about that, Georgie, but I had to play dirty so you wouldn't see it coming," he said. "Can I get you something? Do you need anything?"

"So our Mason likes to play dirty, huh?" I said. "Well, I may just have to file that little tidbit away for future use."

He shot me another surprised, excited look.

I don't know what came over me—probably a combination of relief, anticipation and the fact I couldn't resist the surprised look on his face—but whatever it was, I simply chalked it up to mischief.

I shot him what I hoped was a wicked-yet-seductive grin.

"What?" he asked, sounding a little bit excited, a little bit fearful now.

"Well, you asked me what I need," I began, and I drew the moment out, enjoyed it, toyed with it, toyed with him, let the excitement build. "But I was just thinking I don't need anything."

I grazed his ear with my lips. "I mean, really, I don't need anything, do I?" I teased. He understood then what I was doing. After that, every passing second became an exercise in sadomasochism.

Finally, I said, "Nah." I licked his neck, then moved back to his earlobe and I chewed on it lightly but firmly. When he began to visibly squirm, I ended it, if only because I couldn't take much more.

"Nope, I don't need a god damn thing, Mason," I whispered against his ear. "Except you."

I'd barely gotten the last part out before he'd scooped me up like they do in old movies, right before someone gets swept upstairs to be ravished. I'd realized Mason was deceptively strong when he'd carried me that first night after I'd twisted my ankle—_always the picture of grace, you are, George!_—so I wasn't surprised when he whisked me up into his arms. What did surprise me was the fact that I found the way he could pluck me up so effortlessly such a pure fucking turn-on.

I mean, I've always considered myself a feminist.

When he choked out the two simple words—"Your room?"—his breath ragged and his eyes glassy, it became very clear the same crazy-making words he'd spoken earlier to me drove him just as wild when I said them back to him.

_Well, what do you know? Looks like I may know a thing or two about the power of women after all,_ I thought smugly.

Well, at least that's what I said to myself in my head. What I actually managed to say out loud was, "Yes, please."

By the time I finished speaking those two words, we were already halfway up the stairs.


	24. In Which We Learn Mason Is a Rock Star

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Dead Like Me_. In fact, as this point, I think it owns me. **

Author's note: This is the part where it gets graphic. Smut, smut, smut. It switches between Mason's and George's POVs, because, hey, that's only fair, right?

**Chapter 24: In Which We Learn Mason Is a Rock Star**

[Mason]

When we got up to her room the first thing I did was lay her on on her bed as gently as possible because I knew she must be in pain. She's brave, my Georgie girl, and she's cheeky as hell, but that doesn't mean she necessarily always pulls the wool over my eyes with her badass, tough-girl shtick. Sure, she's a reaper, and we heal fast, but until that happens, it hurts. I know.

The second thing I did was make sure I locked the bloody door. After what happened last time, I'd decided if I ever got another chance at this, there wouldn't be any interruptions.

_So if Daisy comes home she can claw at the bloody door 'til her fingers fall off if she wants, that's her choice. Me, I choose George. And if I click my heels three times and think of home, or clap my hands and promise to believe, or whatever, maybe I can cobble together just enough magic that she'll stay here and choose me back._

"Mason, old boy," I said to myself, "just this once you might be a lucky fucking bastard."

"What are you muttering about?" she asked from the bed. "And why are you still all the way over there?"

She was propped against the pillows, a wicked grin on her face, wiggling her finger at me to come back. Her hair was rumpled and she looked like a proper minx.

She didn't have to ask me twice.

"Nice call on the door," she said, grinning just a little too smugly. My first instinct was to kiss that shit-eating grin right off her face but I stopped. This wasn't our usual game of verbal oneupmanship. So what if she was getting a bit ahead of herself?

_Besides, I can overlook it, because I realized a while ago I want to be the bloke who always makes her smile._

So instead I said, "Yeah, thanks, I thought it was a right stroke of genius," and we both had a chuckle until I went in to kiss her.

I started to work myself onto the bed slowly, so as not to put all my weight on her. Like I said before, Georgie's a hellcat and she's a trouper, but I knew her hand and bum must at least be throbbing a bit. I had just got into a comfortable position when she grabbed me by my suit jacket and pulled me down on her, hard. She began working those talented fingers of hers through my hair.

I wasn't sure she was fully aware of what she'd start if she kept it up. That's one of my things, and the feel of her long, slender fingers twisting 'round my hair, her nails scratching lightly against my scalp was threatening to drive me absolutely mad.

_You should probably stop … _I thought about warning her, but what came out was,_ Oh, Jesus, don't stop ..._

Then she pulled a handful of hair, a bit rougher than playful, and used it to bring my head level with hers. She cocked her head to one side and looked me dead in the eye, smirking, and … _fuck me, she knows exactly what she's doing._

I heard myself growl. Both hands were in my hair now, one moving low around my neck to pull me back toward her mouth.

"Well, well, Georgie. Aren't you just a clever little thing?" I remarked against her lips.

"Oh, just wait—I get cleverer by the minute," she said.

It was all I needed.

I worked my way entirely on top of her, balancing myself with my elbows, trying not to crush her and wanting to at the same time. She was slunk down low in the pillows and I went straightaway for her gorgeous, full, pouting mouth. I kissed her softly at first until her naughty little pink tongue shot out and began darting all around, wrestling with mine. When she caught it in her mouth and began to suck on it, it felt brilliant.

When I felt the ache between my legs I realized I'd been hard for so long now my cock could probably cut glass. She must have noticed this as well because her talented fingers moved from my hair to my trousers, where she made quick work of the button and zip and pushed my pants down past my hips.

She let out a laugh.

"Well, now, that's never the sound you want to hear when a girl's just pulled down your pants," I said, but I realized she was laughing at my Union Jack shorts. She shook her head in disbelief and I wiggled my eyebrows at her suggestively, and we both laughed.

"I hope you own multiple pairs of those," she said. I started to answer but she cut me off: "No, don't answer that. I don't wannna know."

"Georgie," I said to her, "The state of my shorts is hardly the issue here. What I want to know is why my trousers are around my legs, yet you're fully clothed."

"Yeah, what _is_ up with that?" she said, and the look she gave me just dared me to do something about it. I decided she definitely needed to lose the shirt, so I started with her buttons.

I had to keep reminding myself that she hadn't done this, not really, that she wasn't a virgin but just barely, so I made myself go slow.

Besides, I'd been waiting a long time for this, and I planned to savor the hell out of it. I leaned down and began to kiss her neck as I worked each button free. When my mouth reached her collarbone she threw her head back, and let out a series of low, throaty moans that drove me bananas.

_She always makes fun of the way I say "bananas," _I thought, and I smiled against her skin until she grabbed my jacket again and yanked it down my arms until I wriggled free.

_At this rate, it was becoming harder and harder to remember to pace myself. _

Her shirt was fully unbuttoned by this point and she was wearing a blue lacy bra, much different than the plain cotton one she had on the first time I saw her here. I could see her nipples very clearly through the lace, and they were pale pink and already quite hard. I lowered my mouth and began to lick along the parts of her breasts that were swollen above the flimsy cups.

"Mmmm. Very saucy, Georgie girl," I said to her. "I approve."

She laughed but it quickly turned into a moan as I dragged my tongue between her breasts. She tasted a bit salty and also musky, like the soap she likes.

It was intoxicating, and believe me, I reckon if anyone knows intoxication, it's me.

I pushed her sleeves back and down her arms. Her eyes were a bit glazed and her lips very pink and swollen. I felt my cock start to ache again against the fabric of my shorts.

I put my hand over one of her bra cups and began to knead her through the material. She started moaning again, low. I switched over to the other cup, watching her face while my hand massaged her through the blue lace, as I took her other breast in my mouth. Her breathing had become very shallow and she was almost panting, until finally she said, "Jesus, Mason, just please take the damn thing off already."

So I did.

It was fan-fucking-tastic, but I never doubted it would be.

[George]

It was never my plan to beg him to rip my ridiculous excuse of a bra off me, but I have to admit it really worked out.

He had been rubbing me through the fabric, and when he started sucking me through the lacy material, I thought I might die.

But even as good as that was, mouth-on-skin was so much better. When his lips and tongue went to work on me again, sucking and licking, I moaned. Thankfully, this time, he didn't think it was because I wanted him to stop.

_Probably because I had been chanting don't stop, don't stop, don't stop, but I didn't realize it at the time._

Finally, I said, "Get your bony English ass up here."

"'_Bony ass_?' You think I have a bony ass?" he repeated, crawling toward me. "I'll have you know I've never had any complaints before."

"I didn't say I was complaining," I corrected him, as his hips met mine. "I just needed to do _this_." I hooked my fingers underneath his waistband, and pulled his briefs down to meet his pants. He pushed himself up a bit as his dick bobbed free and I found myself staring. I'd never seen a penis like this, up close and personal, with the lights on.

"Do you see something you like?" he teased, his eyes heavy, but I couldn't answer.

Sure, Trip and I had fumbled around in the dark, and I had touched him, and of course I'd seen full-frontal male nudity on Skinemax, but it was different being faced with the real thing so … directly.

His shirt and t-shirt were still half-on, his pants around his calves, but nothing obscured the view.

_Oh, God, what if I'm not any good at this? What if I disappoint him? What if I make a fool of myself?_

Mason pushed himself up until he was on his knees, sort of kneeling between my legs. He was looking at me very intently when he said, quietly, "George? Georgia?"

"Yeah?" I answered, forcing myself to look him in the face, knowing I was blushing, and trying not to look as inexperienced or awkward as I suddenly felt.

"If you don't want to do this ..." he began.

"No, no, I do, I do," I said, and I meant it.

"Right," he said, more a question than a statement.

"I do," I said, again, but I could tell he didn't entirely believe me.

"Georgie, it's—" he began.

I needed to prove it to him, and instinct took over. I reached under my skirt and panties and touched myself, then reached up and put my wet fingers against his lips. He shut his eyes for a second and swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I want you," I managed to spit out. "I'm just ... it's … maybe you won't want me when you find out I'm not any good at this. I mean, I don't know. I don't have much to gauge by."

"My beautiful, sexy Georgie," he said, "I want you. You never have to worry about that." He lowered himself back down and rested his forehead against mine. "Besides, all evidence so far points to you being a bloody natural at this."

I blushed again but felt myself relax. We were both smiling now.

"How about we go a bit slower, yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Except for one thing."

"Mmm, what's that?" he asked.

"If I'm going to keep laying here completely topless, I'm going to need you to take off all those fucking shirts you're wearing."

I was only joking, but I swear he had them off by the time it took me to blink.

[Mason]

When she asked me to take off my shirt and t-shirt, I knew she was taking the piss, but if there was even half a chance she might actually hide herself from me, I wasn't about to take it.

We began kissing again, slowly, 'til eventually I started moving down her neck and across her shoulders. Her hands were twisting in my hair again and she was making those soft little moaning noises.

By the time I took her nipple into my mouth, she was arching into me, her hands still grabbing handfuls of hair but more forcefully now, her fingers spread out on either side of my head like she was palming a basketball, pressing me down, hard, to her chest.

"God," I panted, around a mouthful of her.

"Nope, not God, just me," she said, cheekily.

"Ah, there's my girl," I grinned.

The last layers left between us were her flimsy little skirt and knickers, but even as tiny as they were, they were too much. I reached between her legs and pushed the skirt over her thighs so she was exposed. Her knickers were blue like the bra and just as sheer. I pulled them aside and tried to make myself go slowly as I reached between her legs. I knew from before that she was wet but I wasn't expecting her to be quite so ready, and I stopped breathing for just a second when she began grinding against my hand.

Tentatively I pushed a finger inside her, and she moaned.

"Am I hurting you?" I asked.

"God, no," she said, her breath coming faster now.

"Ha! Not God, love, just me," I said.

"Funny, it seems like I've heard that one before," she said, still having me on even as she rode my finger. When I began to rub my palm against her, though, she looked a bit panicked.

"Mason!"

"Ooh, I like the way you say that," I said, and inserted a second finger. "Say it again."

"Mason, I'm serious. If you don't stop I'm going to—"

"That's the idea, Georgie," I encouraged her, my fingers sliding in and out to the rhythm of my palm as I rubbed her and she began to buck wildly against my hand. "Look at me."

Seconds later, I watched as she came. She looked completely gobsmacked, eyes wide, mouth open, gasping for air, back arched, grinding into my hand while she tugged and pulled at my hair.

I never thought I'd say this, but, bloody Christ, the reality was _so_ much better than the fantasy.

[George]

_Fuck,_ I thought to myself when I could finally breathe again, _I've been missing out._

I've never owned a vibrator, but I made a mental note to get one ASAP.

"Wow, you do play dirty," I said.

He _tsk-tsk_ed me. "I gave you fair warning," he said.

"Not fair enough," I said.

"Well, you know what they say—'All's fair in love and war,'" he said.

"And which one was that?" I asked, knowing full well it was a little bit of both.

"You know, you're beautiful when you come," he said, and it should have sounded filthy, but in that accent of his it just sounded hot.

Surprisingly, I wasn't embarrassed—in fact, just the opposite was true. I felt shameless. "You honestly think that was beautiful?" I teased.

"Hell, yes, I do," he said.

"Well, then," I said, and wrapped my hand around him. "Let's see about you."

He was still on top of me, supporting his weight with his elbows, and he drew a sharp breath.

"Jesus!" he said.

"We've been through this already," I reminded him coyly. "Not Jesus, just me."

W_hen the fuck did I start getting coy?_ _Living with Daisy must be rubbing off on me._

I guided him into me, just the tip, and he grunted softly against my lips when he pushed himself the rest of the way inside.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and suddenly there was nothing soft about the way he sounded. He bared his teeth and then it was all lips and tongues as we began kissing and nipping at each other as he slid in and out of me.

"You ... feel ... so ... good," he panted, working to find a rhythm. Instinctively I wrapped my legs around his waist and lifted my hips to meet his thrusts.

_Huh_, I thought. _Maybe I _am _a natural at this._

_Or maybe Trip just sucks at it and Mason rocks at it,_ I thought with a smirk.

He must have felt my lips curl up because he stopped kissing me and asked, "And what are you grinning about?"

"I was just thinking you're kind of a rock star at this," I said.

"Oh, yeah?" he said, and he looked pleased and proud as he reached down between my legs to massage me again. Almost instantly, the familiar pressure began to build inside me again. When he dipped his head to suck my nipple, it was more than I could take.

"Mason," I warned. "I'm too close."

His head shot up, his lips releasing me with a wet pop, and he leaned into me. "There's no statute of limitations on orgasms, you know," he said. "I like making you come."

"I like it, too," I managed to spit out, "but I don't want to do it before you."

"Trust me," he said, "I'm having to conjure up all sorts of horrible images to keep that from happening just yet, love."

"Well, stop it," I said. "There's no statute of limitations on how many times we can do _this_, either, you know. So please, just look at me. I want to watch you, too."

He stopped and did the thing again where he put his forehead against mine, and we were face-to-face, eyes open.

His rhythm was steady at first but soon he began moving faster and faster inside me and I adjusted my rhythm to match his.

He began grunting softly with each thrust, still looking at me as he fucked me, and I tried to pretend it wasn't a total sensory overload, but it was, and ..._oh, God_ …

I began to shiver and my legs locked tighter around his waist as I rode it out. It felt so amazing, and I must have shut my eyes, or maybe they rolled back in my head, I don't know, but I heard Mason say, "Georgia, look at me."

I opened my eyes and it wasn't long before I watched him as he came, hips thrusting wildly until he gave one final thrust, baring his teeth again and shouting "Jesus!" against my lips.

This time, I didn't correct him.


	25. Epilogue

**Disclaimer: I don't own Dead Like Me, just this particular story.**

George's POV

**Chapter 25: Epilogue**

I woke up with Mason curled around me, snoring a little, and to my surprise I didn't feel panicked, or freaked out, or worried that Daisy would find out and tell Rube.

Nope. I just felt good.

_Although if he's going to continue to sleep up here, we're going to have to do something about the snoring, _I thought, and stretched.

"Mmm," he said. "Good morning."

"Good morning," I said. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Well, I hope you weren't going to try to sneak out on me," he said.

I laughed. "Not a chance. And besides, this is my room."

"So it is," he said, smiling. "How do you feel? Are you OK?"

"Oh, I feel absolutely fantastic," I said. "You?'

"Yeah, I'm all right," he said.

I raised an eyebrow.

"Or, y'know, like that bloke from _Titanic_," he laughed. "'I'm king of the world!'"

I laughed, too.

"Wait—you've seen _Titanic_?" I asked.

"Georgie, sometimes there isn't a lot of choice on the telly at 3 a.m.," he said.

"Right," I laughed.

"Wait a second … Oh, shit! What time is it?" I asked, reaching for my clock, suddenly remembering I hadn't set the alarm.

"Bloody hell, it's 10 a.m.," Mason said, and we both shot out of bed.

"Rube is going to fucking kill us," I said. "Oh, God, where's my bra?"

"I think you should go just the way you are," Mason said. "Besides, that flimsy little thing you had on last night isn't going to cover much."

"That 'flimsy little thing' I had on last night wasn't mine," I said. "Rube gave it to me."

"Shit! Give a bloke some warning next time," he sputtered. "That's disgusting."

"Oh, gross!" I said, socking him in the arm. "It was part of my costume."

"Well, then, that's entirely different, isn't it?" he asked. "You in a costume—ooh, I like the thought of that."

"Pervert," I teased. "Hurry up, we have to get going."

We dressed quickly and I washed my face and brushed my teeth and hair. Luckily, I didn't have to work at Happy Time today, so I didn't have to bother with makeup.

When we got downstairs, Daisy was on the couch, watching _Dr. Phil_.

"Why aren't you at Der Waffle Haus?" I asked. "It's after 10."

"I _was_ at Der Waffle Haus,_ two hours ago_," she said. "Did you know Dr. Phil isn't actually a medical doctor?"

"Um, no, I didn't know that," I said. "What do you mean you were there two hours ago?"

"I mean I was there two hours ago," she said. "Honestly, Georgia, sometimes you'd think you didn't understand English."

I was about to ask her if she thought Rube was still there when she held out two Post-Its. "Don't worry, I got your assignments," she said.

"You did?" I asked, glancing at mine as she handed them off. "Really? What did Rube say? Was he pissed?"

"No," she said. "I told him you two didn't get home until late after the McCullough reap because something held you up afterward. He heard the reap itself came off with flying colors, though, and said to tell you nice work."

"He did?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Huh," I said. "Thanks, Daisy."

"No problem," she said. "I figured I owed it to you."

"Oh? Why?"

"I just figured I did," she said. She turned her attention back to the TV.

"So where'd you go last night?" I asked.

"Nowhere," she said. "I was here."

My face went hot. "Oh?"

"We thought you were out with your mystery bloke," Mason said, even though he and I hadn't actually discussed it.

"I figured you did," she said. "Oh, by the way, Georgia, I borrowed your iPod last night. I couldn't sleep and it was on the couch."

_Oh, shit._

My face was on fire. "Sure," I stammered. "Did it help?"

"Put me right out. I couldn't hear a _thing_," she said. "You've got some good music on there, by the way. Some of it's a little too angsty for me and you could do with some crooners, but all in all, it's a good selection."

"Definitely nothing I'd call _rubbish_, anyway," she said, pointedly, and stood up, turning off the TV.

"Wh-where are you off to?" I asked, trying to conceal my embarrassment.

"I have to get ready because I'm meeting my _mystery bloke_ for lunch. Oh, and I still have your iPod for the time being, if that's OK," she added, and walked out of the room.

Mason and I looked at each other.

"Holy shit, I think she just apologized to you, in her own, very strange, very Daisy way," he said.

"I think you're right," I said, incredulously.

"I think she also just gave us her blessing," he added.

"I think she did," I repeated, almost speechless.

"And I think you're bloody beautiful when you're completely gobsmacked," he said, leaning in for a kiss.

When we finally broke apart, I said, "Well, then. Let's go see if you can find something to do that will completely gobsmack me."

He laughed, and I took his hand and led him back upstairs.

THE END


End file.
